About the Author

JOAN BECKWITH grew up in Melbourne during the 1950s and 60s as the child of Irish-Australian parents. She returned to study in the 1970s, grateful to Gough Whitlam for abolishing university fees, lectured in psychology in the 80s and 90s, and worked in the community sector as a practitioner during Jeff Kennett’s era as Premier of Victoria. She witnessed much change in universities and community services during that time, abandoning both in recent years to concentrate on private practice, working as a volunteer with asylum seekers, and making the transition from academic writing to other forms including fiction. She still lives in Melbourne with her partner, and her children also currently live nearby.

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Published by Joan Beckwith

Published 2012

Copyright © Joan Beckwith 2012

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright restricted above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher of this book.

You Don’t Speak for Me words and music by Judy Small

© 1988 Crafty Maid Music.

ISBN:   978 0 9873701 0 5 (Pbk)

978 0 9873701 1 2 (ePub)

978 0 9873701 2 9 (Kindle)

Distributed by the author

Cover design, typesetting: Chameleon Print Design

Acknowledgements

When I first started this book, I had everything to learn about writing fiction. I was lucky enough to encounter Janey Runci as a teacher. She was instructive, constructive and encouraging. I began to believe it was possible. At the other end of the process, I have been equally lucky to have Blaise van Hecke as editor. Her assessment of an earlier version was the catalyst for getting it into better shape.

In between these two guides, there have been many friends, family members, and manuscript assessors who have provided invaluable feedback, even if some of it was not immediately welcome, especially if it involved extensive revisions. I greatly appreciate the time, effort, and care people have given to making this a better book.

The central support of my life, work, and writing is my partner, Peter. He has always been the first person to see anything I have written; I have benefited enormously from his criticisms, and been encouraged by his occasional ticks of approval. Our children, Damon and Arden, have been enthusiastic about the goal and admirably patient over the journey. Damon’s partner, Melissa, has also contributed her characteristically generous support. Most importantly, the loving presence of these young people in our lives has kept all other endeavours in perspective.

I am very grateful to everyone who has contributed in one way or another to bringing this book to completion.

To those who have sought justice,

for themselves or others.

Contents

PART ONE       1999 – 2000

PART TWO      1959 – 1960

PART THREE    2000 – 2001

PART ONE

1999 – 2000

Swimming with sharks is like any other skill. It cannot be learned from books alone. The novice must practice in order to develop the skill.

Voltaire Cousteau

How to Swim with Sharks

Chapter 1

Lena is part of the new breed; can-do products of management programs at the zenith of competition policy. Social entrepreneurs they are, eloquent on targets and throughputs and outcomes, less clear about people, unless as Myers-Briggs types. Rising stars of the market economy at this tail end of the century and bottom end of mainland Australia.

It is just six weeks since Lena took up the helm of The Portal; merely a step on the way, of course, but a significant step. The board was impressed by her vision – promising creativity and innovation as well as compliance with bureaucratic directives. No one questioned the contradiction; perhaps it passed unnoticed. Lena can streamline this place in no time. She is a very efficient woman; renowned for it in fact.

She has been briefing her deputy, Ruth, who was acting executive director prior to Lena’s appointment. The status of Ruth’s vision is thus uncertain. She is useful to Lena, though, as deputies are. They can be given responsibility – without control. Control belongs to the executive director. It is called leadership.

*    *    *

Lena rolled her rear around the padded chair and spread her arms across its supports. The leather had not yet taken her shape. She leaned forward slightly so as to place both feet flat on the floor. ‘I’ll be reporting to the board mid August, less than three months from now, and I’m aiming to demonstrate significantly improved outcomes on key performance indicators, which means, of course, directing all resources into core business.’ Turning a spreadsheet towards Ruth, she pointed out several columns of figures. ‘We must start meeting, or better still exceeding, government targets if we’re to protect current contracts and secure new ones.’

The spreadsheet was set to the side. ‘I know you’re behind me on this, and I know you’ll help bring staff on board,’ she added, with a nod of encouragement across the desk and a glint of steel behind black-rimmed glasses.

‘Of course,’ Ruth declared, although it was not clear exactly which part of Lena’s statement she was agreeing with. ‘There may be a few obstacles,’ she said less confidently, shuffling the papers in her lap.

‘I’m well aware of that.’ Lena’s mouth shut on a tight line. ‘However,’ she added, dusting her hands together, ‘you should know I’ve built my reputation on dealing with – obstacles.’ She leaned forward as if about to say more, but straightened her back and reached for her diary instead.

*    *    *

Had the two women looked out the window instead of into their respective diaries, they would have seen a small group just dispersing from its own gathering under the jacaranda tree. One of the group is waving a farewell to several others heading down the driveway before turning back to a further three still standing in a ragged semi-circle.

He is Joel, a former client of The Portal, and now one of the driving forces of the client-staff partnership process. The three in the semi-circle are Ria, Simon, and Jenny, also founding members of the process, and part of the counselling staff of the agency. The Portal provides services for drug users, many of whom also have histories of mental health problems, domestic violence, childhood abuse, foster care, homelessness, and jail time. Lacking from their previous histories, however, has been any say in the services provided for them; they have always been the “done to”. The partnership process, which recently celebrated its first anniversary, is an experiment in “doing with”, drawing on the knowledge of lived experience to enrich the knowledge of experts.

‘I’m hoping we’ll have about twenty staff, including management, plus board members,’ said Ria, running both hands through newly-bleached spikes, ‘and I’m guessing from what you’ve said, Joel, there could be at least that number of clients.’

They have been discussing a ceremony to mark Sorry Day, a national day of remembrance for the stolen generations of aboriginal children. This will be the second time the ceremony takes place at The Portal. The previous year it was a landmark event, attended by clients, staff, management, and board members, many of whom would not otherwise be found in the same place at the same time and with such a sense of solidarity. The Portal has few aboriginal clients and no aboriginal staff, but an early decision of the partnership process was to extend its reach beyond the immediate interests of drug users into the broader domain of social justice.

‘We’re set to go for at least fifty, no problem. So, what’re you looking so worried about, Ria?’ Joel bandied his legs, squatting the twelve or so centimetres required to look directly into Ria’s face.

‘Not sure.’

‘No list?’

‘Working on it.’

A brief smile around the group lifted the mood. Ria is well known for her lists. She can produce a list for anything from lunch ingredients to year-long projects, and has a spiral bound A4 lecture book especially for the purpose, divided into sections, items crossed out when completed, pages torn out when obsolete. This book, according to Simon, might yet be short listed for the eighth wonder.

‘It’ll all work out on the day, Ria.’ Jenny spoke softly, but with her own edge of uncertainty.

‘And shouldn’t we be celebrating today, anyway, instead of worrying about tomorrow?’ Simon cut in.

‘Of course we should,’ Ria agreed. ‘The process has survived a year; more than a year, and more than survived. That’s major. And your energy’s been crucial, Joel. I don’t think we could’ve done half of what we’ve done if you’d still been using, and I can’t believe it’s two years since the big turnaround.’

‘Nor can I,’ said Joel, as if still surprised at the minor miracle his drug-free lifestyle represented. ‘Let’s not revisit that night though, if it’s all the same with you guys. Must go, busy man and all that …’

Joel sprinted across the garden.

‘But, heh, Ria,’ he called back part way, stopping long enough for the remaining trio to look towards him. ‘Ria, you’ve mussed your hair.’

‘Oh, no,’ wailed Ria, smacking the back of her hand against her forehead. ‘How will I get through the day?’

*    *    *

It had been cold, windy, and dusk-turning-dark that autumn evening two years ago. Ria had stepped out of the main entrance with her office-mate, Simon, and they were heading to meet Jenny for catch-up and coffee. At the same instant both noticed the huddled shapes in the middle of the lawn, two bending over one sprawled across the garden bench; legs, arms, and head at ungainly angles. With immediate recognition of what they were likely witnessing, Ria dashed back to reception, grabbed a cordless phone, and was dialling the twenty-four-hour practitioner advice line as she pushed back out the door.

Simon was firing questions at the two onlookers by the time Ria reached the bench, scribbling answers on a scrap of brown paper that might previously have held his lunch. ‘What’s his name? J-o-e-l? Joel what? What do you know about what he’s taken? When did he have his first hit? When did he have the last one? What else? Pills? What sort? How many? When? Booze? None? Doesn’t drink at all, you say?’

He put it all together for Ria who was providing details to the medic at the other end of the line.

‘Definitely an ambulance job,’ was the medic’s response. ‘There’ll be one on the way pronto. Get him on his feet and keep him moving. He’ll be a dead weight, but it sounds like there’re four of you, and even if you have to drag him along you should be able to keep him upright.’

So that’s what they did. Ria recognised the near-comatose object of their attentions. He had been a client of the agency in an erratic way for some months, apparently only attending because he had to, and would find himself in jail if he breached the conditions of his court order. She did not recognise his two companions and although each set of eyeballs was pretty pinned, both men seemed reasonably compos.

‘He won’t want Narcan,’ slurred one of them, staggering under the weight of the left shoulder. Narcan was the drug the paramedics would probably inject as an antidote to heroin. It also had the effect of reversing the feel-no-pain euphoria of the drug, and overdose victims had been known to struggle violently to prevent being injected. If it wasn’t injected, however, the respiratory system could slow to a halt.

‘That’ll be the paramedics’ call,’ Ria stated, her tone sending the speaker back to his task. ‘He collapsed on our doorstep. We had to call the ambulance, and they have to resuscitate if necessary.’

The wail of the siren could already be heard, and seconds later the ambulance swung into the drive, lights still flashing.

Joel offered no resistance. He was too far gone, breathing rate at a dangerously low level. The paramedics had him held, injected, ventilated, strapped to the gurney, and rolled into the back of the ambulance within a few minutes. The onlookers-come-assistants had slipped away in that time.

The whole incident, from the time Ria and Simon first stepped out the front door, had taken less than half an hour, although the hyper-alertness would take longer to wear off. They headed belatedly for the coffee shop, keen to unwind, although Jenny had left by the time they got there. They would have to grovel tomorrow, but she would understand when they explained the circumstances. Their work together had brought its measure of crises like tonight, and the stakes were high. Ria and Jenny had both experienced the death of clients by suicide or murder, and all of them were acutely aware of the precariousness of the lives they dealt with. They took nothing for granted, including each other.

*    *    *

The next day, Ria called the hospital and discovered Joel was doing well but was being held for observation and tests. The following day she was told the tests had shown no lasting damage and, at his request, Joel was being transferred to the hospital’s detox unit. Ria was delighted, and keen to tell Simon as well as other staff who knew Joel and were aware of his recent near-miss. Everyone was excited. Perhaps this would be the beginning of a new direction for Joel. They had high hopes, but no expectations.

*    *    *

The next time Ria saw Joel, he was sitting upright on the same bench he had previously collapsed on.

‘Good morning, Joel. I’m Ria, and it’s good to see you back.’

‘I know who you are. I’ve been doing a bit of thinking since you last saw me. I’m here to get serious about recovery, and I want to see you for counselling. If I can’t die properly, I’m going to have to learn to live properly.’

Ria privately wondered how serious, at least at deeper levels, Joel had been about dying, given where he collapsed, but that was a conversation for a later date. ‘I believe you can learn to live brilliantly,’ was all she said at the time.

*    *    *

It would be great if Joel decided to write his story. He would certainly have the talent, and it could be inspirational for others in similar circumstances. One of the other clients in the partnership process had started a writing group, and there were all sorts of emerging possibilities, including poetry, plays, conference papers, and people’s stories.

Ria was happily absorbed in such thoughts as she hurried towards her office to collect stationery they needed downstairs for their Sorry Day ceremony. On her way back, Lena stopped her in the corridor.

‘The management group will not be attending your … morning tea,’ she said, emphasising the last two words. ‘We have an urgent meeting.’

Ria opened her mouth, wanting to say the ceremony would only take fifteen minutes, but Lena was striding down the corridor.

‘It won’t happen again,’ she called back, firmly shutting the door of her office and leaving Ria open-mouthed, clutching her pens and whiteboard marker. What wouldn’t happen again, she wondered, but wasn’t about to ask. The Open Door clearly wasn’t open to Ria this morning, who had anyway noticed that Lena could become affronted by questions.

‘I’m a very direct person,’ she had said on a previous occasion when Ria had tried to talk to her about the partnership process, given she had walked into something not of her own making. Lena’s exclamations about how marvellous it all was, and how these people deserved lunch, and how Ria must make sure this happened had failed to soothe Ria’s unease. Lena had declared herself totally committed to client participation, as she called the partnership process. ‘It just needs to be properly managed,’ she had added. That comment had jarred, but Ria could not begin to imagine the conversation that might open up discussion, rather than inviting shoulder-patting comments about feminists who like Foucault, and the wisdom of getting across current managerial theory.

*    *    *

Ria returned downstairs to a subdued group of about a dozen people. No board members had arrived, and the number of staff was also less than anticipated. Even client numbers were well down on the previous year.

‘People feel less comfortable these days,’ said Joel. ‘There’s a vibe about loitering unless you’re here for a specific appointment with a specific staff member.’

They re-stacked redundant chairs, moved remaining ones closer together, and played some music by Archie Roach as a way of settling into the ritual. The air felt clearer as they worked their way through traditional opening, acknowledgements of regret for past damage, and hopes for reconciliation. It felt good to look outwards, even if only briefly, but the sense of possibility, so buoyantly present the previous year, was lacking in the room today.

Chapter 2

On a wintry afternoon several weeks later, Ria found herself trudging behind Ruth towards Lena’s office. Lena patted a chair next to her for Ruth to sit on and pointed Ria towards a slat-backed antique on the opposite side of the desk. Ria looked at the woman she had first met such a short time ago, according to the calendar (could it really be only twelve weeks?) and wondered what was behind today’s summons. It was obviously not for collegial chat.

*    *    *

Lena had been reviewing existing policies, identifying gaps, and developing new initiatives – to improve the professionalism, efficiency, and accountability of the agency. She had, it appeared, been able to achieve this without taking up valuable staff time in unproductive consultation because she had drawn on models of proven effectiveness developed in her work for other agencies.

Finalised documents had appeared in pigeonholes with clear expectations of full compliance. Innovations of particular note for the counselling team included seeing clients only in designated counselling rooms, not spending time with them in the garden that could be spent more productively on core business, seeing clients for a maximum of eight sessions (this number being defined as an Episode of Care), cancelling sessions with clients who arrived more than ten minutes late for an appointment, suspending contact with clients who were admitted to detox units, including The Portal’s, ensuring clients did not use the newly-designated staff toilets, monitoring compliance with no-smoking rules, including in the grounds, and conforming to a professional office dress code described in terms strikingly similar to Lena’s own wardrobe.

Ria’s attempts to question these improvements had been stonewalled after the first take-no-prisoners email instructing her, and any of the rest of the counselling team aligned with her, that the new policies were non-negotiable, and had the full support of the vast majority of staff of the overall agency. Any employee who did not feel able to deal with change should seriously consider their position in the future of the organisation. If, as claimed, some clients may be “put off” by the policies, the executive director could only assume they were insufficiently committed to their treatment and should be terminated. The Portal, counselling staff were advised to remember, is a clinical facility, not a drop-in centre, and the executive director was committed to ensuring it became a highly respected one. She would be very disappointed in any member of her staff who did not appreciate the merits of these new policies for the good reputation of the organisation, which was well on its way to becoming a Centre of Excellence.

Excellence in what, good reputation amongst whom, Ria wanted to ask, but refrained from such inflammatory questions. Her attempt at tactful silence did not, of course, stem the tide of emails from Ruth, presumably under Lena’s instructions, documenting Ria’s transgressions against the new policies, and those of the rest of the team. Ria was directed to deal with these matters during group supervision sessions. In reply, Ria noted she was a team leader, not a manager, and supervision sessions were about counselling practice; line management matters had previously been dealt with by Ruth in separate meetings. She had not heard further.

*    *    *

Today’s summons through the Open Door was not about more of the same, Ria decided, as Lena swept around her desk, flourishing a piece of paper in outstretched arm. Ria edged back against wooden struts that dug into the knobs of her spine, deciding not to reach for the paper. The way Lena looked, she might get her hand swatted if she did.

‘Did you show this memo to a client?’ Lena demanded, standing too close with her waggling hands.

‘Yes, I did.’ Ria did not need to look at the document. She knew what this was about now. ‘I showed it to Joel. Or at least the part that directly involved him.’

Joel had published a letter in a local paper and had subsequently been interviewed for an article. Lena had been aware of both the letter and the interview; indeed had set up the interview, having talked to the journalist herself. During Joel’s interview, which was about his life as a former drug user, he had commented that safe injecting facilities would reduce overdose deaths. This incidental comment subsequently formed the headline of the article, which proceeded to link Joel to The Portal and The Portal to advocacy for safe injecting facilities; very bad press in these political times. The memo had, in its inimical style, made that quite clear.

‘He didn’t make those links. He was interviewed about his personal history and was expressing his personal views. He stressed that to the journalist. He’s as angry as you are about being misquoted.’

‘Well …’ The executive director spun the document across the desk before sweeping back to her seat. ‘I’ll have you know …’ Grey serge heaved and stretched. ‘I’ll have you know … I consider this a serious breach of confidentiality; unethical, unprofessional and a matter for formal warning.’

Lena tilted her backrest, arms folded and head nodding. Ruth moved closer to Lena, also nodding. They both sat, nodding, leaning, and peering at Ria as if for signs of – what? Dismay? Embarrassment? Penitence? Ria blinked, moving backwards. This is like a dance, she thought, as her chair scraped the floor.

‘That’s my normal practice, to consult with someone who’s involved,’ she managed, although explaining was obviously pointless. Neither person in front of her was interested in her professional practices, or Joel being misrepresented in the memo and misquoted in the article.

Lena rolled her eyes.

Ruth clucked her tongue. ‘Ria,’ she said, shaking her head sorrowfully, ‘I thought you took pride in your ethics. How could you consider what you’ve done to be professional behaviour?’ Brow puckered, stroking her chin, she glanced at Ria before looking back towards Lena.

‘I’m not prepared to discuss it further without a Union representative present.’ Ria stood and turned towards the door.

The executive director also jerked her head towards the door. ‘You would dare to walk out on a formal meeting?’

Something in the tone made Ria look back. There was genuine emotion there now, but it was shock, not anger. Ria shook her head, trying to clear its noisy confusion. ‘You’ve made heavy allegations. I’ll speak to Warren at the Union, ask him to ring you.’

She opened the door and moved through, listing slightly as she pulled it behind her.

*    *    *

They couldn’t be for real, could they? Couldn’t be cobbling together a formal warning on such a pretext? Dragging her feet down the long, narrow corridor, Ria barely registered the concerned looks of colleagues. The place looks more like a prison, she thought, with its bare walls and blank doors and feel of institutional greyness. Funny to be so aware of that now. Her own room felt welcoming, by comparison, with its posters, plants and photos; its colour and light.

Her favourite poster, produced by clients of mental health services, showed a colourful group marching down the main city mall under a clear blue sky. Half a dozen marchers, dotted through the crowd, each held part of a banner, each part beautifully made with its own square frame and handle. “You bet we’re non-compliant and inappropriate” the banner read when put together.

Lena, no doubt, would sort out the room along with its occupants.

Ria sank into her chair. The maidenhair fern certainly needed sorting out. Should give it some overdue attention. Should ring the Union. Needed to write some notes first. The plant had been doing so well – until recently. Should sort out the mess on the desk. Should return some calls. Not happy now; drooping, brown-edged, no new growth.

Her gaze was still fixed on the plant when Simon touched her shoulder. ‘We heard some of that,’ he said, swivelling her chair to face him. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

Looking into his clear-eyed face, Ria knew she couldn’t afford to respond to his kindness right then. ‘Thanks, Simon, but I have to see someone in about five minutes. Perhaps later? When we’re both finished?’

She smiled, and he responded with thumbs up. ‘Let’s meet for coffee at five-thirty,’ he said, as both phones started ringing.

*    *    *

It was bleak and threatening rain by the time Simon and Ria met for coffee. The corner café had become a refuge for workers from The Portal and tonight its welcoming warmth provided a refuge from the wintry gale as well. It was softly lit by standard lamps and pastel shades cast a glow across polished wooden tables and floor. There were no other patrons at this home-time hour between lunch and dinner, and the two young women who ran the café were themselves sitting at a corner table drinking some of their own excellent coffee. Of course they didn’t mind, they said both at once. They were just hanging about waiting for the evening to start.

‘You two look a bit beat, though,’ said the one who brought mugs of cappuccino and placed sugar to hand.

‘Perhaps that’s what we should do,’ said Simon, looking around the café when he and Ria were alone again. ‘Get out of The Portal and run a coffee shop. Those two always seem so cheerful and energetic. It makes me tired just watching them.’ He rubbed one hand over his shaved dome and stirred a mound of sugar into his coffee with the other.

Ria studied her colleague. He was passionate about his work and this weary droop was something new. ‘It’s always been a fantasy of mine,’ she said, wondering what was happening to them all. ‘A combination of coffee and books. And a cosy reading room, with soft couches and an open fire where people could sit and drink the coffee and browse. I wouldn’t want to have to make money at it, though. It’d be more like a community sitting room. Oh, and I’d like another room for a discussion area. And maybe another one with writing tables.’

‘Dream on,’ said Simon, some of the generous warmth returning to his features. ‘In the meantime we’ve got the angry elephant to deal with.’ He spread his legs across the chair and pounded them up and down. ‘Where do you think she learnt that walk?’

‘It looks painful, doesn’t it?’ Ria grinned, although the effort felt lopsided. ‘Maybe it’s part of that management training we’re all so sadly ignorant about. Seriously, though, the more I think about what’s happening at work, the more I see parallels with abusive families. My response isn’t helpful, I know, but I also know there’s no right way to respond to someone like Lena.’ Ria stopped to give Simon a chance to react. She could see he was connecting to what she was saying.

‘Yes,’ he said, leaning forward and drawing the spoon through the dregs of his coffee. ‘I see what you’re saying. The abuse model does fit, and Lena is responsible. With Ruth as sycophantic gofer … Oops!’

Simon darted a glance over his shoulder, throwing his arms into mock surrender. ‘Competent, Committed, Conscientious Deputy Executive Director, I mean. That’s Ruth – CCCDED.’ Simon hooted and hollered, stamped and clapped in appreciation of his own cleverness.

‘Heh, that’s good. And Lena’s just DED. Divine Executive Director, or Diabolical Executive Director, depending on where you’re coming from.’

The two of them laughed – longer and louder than warranted by their feeble jokes.

Two chamomile teas slid onto the table, ‘compliments of the house’.

Ria sobered first. Simon hiccoughed and steadied. They both groaned.

‘You know,’ said Simon, weariness washing his face again. ‘They wouldn’t thank us for our insight. Lena in particular.’

There was no laughter now. Simon kept talking.

‘Waving the abuse model in front of Lena’d be the proverbial red rag. She thinks she’s entitled to behave the way she does. She thinks it’s what she’s paid for. Maybe it is. Maybe the members of the board think she’s doing a great job. On the other hand, looking at the way we react might provide clues about how to do better. I fall into the reasonable category, although that response is wearing thin. It’s not working. You’ve arced-up, and that person so often becomes the scapegoat. Did you know we were all pulled in today, one by one, and asked about the memo? You were the last. We all tried to warn you, but couldn’t catch you all day.’

‘I suspected as much.’ Ria dragged her hands through her hair, pulling it sideways on top of her ears. ‘Lena must’ve known who it was, so you have to wonder about the process. Why didn’t she ask me first, or at least pull us all in together? It would’ve saved a lot of time. Thanks for trying to warn me, though.’

‘No worries.’ A brief smile lightened Simon’s face. ‘Ria, you might want to do something about your hair before you go home.’

Ria could feel her bleached crop sticking up in feral bunches rather than the artfully dishevelled spikes her hairdresser had first produced a couple of years previously. She had complained of being totally sick of boring ash-turning-grey long hair and had given him carte blanche to create an edgy look (his description). She had loved the result, but had encountered mixed reactions from her family – strong disapproval from her partner, dismay from her daughter (“my mummy has long brown hair”) and thumbs-up “that’s cool” from her adolescent son and his friends. Her daughter had since reconciled to the new look, but her partner had maintained his hard line stance.

Ria smoothed her hair as best she could, not much caring what it looked like (bad sign, she could hear the “coping” experts mutter), stirred her tea unnecessarily, and thought about the charade played out during the day. ‘I loathe her power games,’ she ground out through clenched teeth, cup bouncing against the edge of its saucer.

‘Yes, it shows, and she doesn’t love you for it.’ Simon set the cup to rights. ‘About today, I think the rest of us were being invited to protest our innocence and say how horrified we were and what a terrible thing to have happened.’ Simon fluttered his hands at shoulder height before clasping the sides of his tilted face.

‘I don’t think you’ve got that quite right,’ said Ria, smiling at Simon’s blank expression. ‘But I think you’re right about the tactic. It may have worked in some cases, or at least she made out it did. She took pleasure in telling me that some of my colleagues had been shocked and could see why she was so upset. I said I hoped that made her feel better but it didn’t change my position. I just hope she didn’t pick up how rattled I was by that particular missile.’

‘Yeah, back to the abusive situation. She’s an expert at divide-and-conquer. So, what do we do?’ Simon’s dome got another polish, two-handed this time.

The colleagues pondered their chamomile. Ria thought about what they had said so far about the afternoon’s activities. ‘I think we need to hold on to the trust we’ve developed,’ she said into the silence, forming her thoughts as she did so. ‘The work we’ve done to build a team, and the partnership process, goes back much further than this drama. We don’t always agree, but we’ve never undermined each other either.’

‘Yeah,’ said Simon, nodding his head and drumming his fingers on the table. ‘Like she was really sympathetic to me, in a most confiding way, about how hard it must be to share an office with you.’

‘Oh?’ Ria hoped she sounded steadier than she felt.

‘Well, according to Lena, you seem such a difficult woman, and I’m so easygoing and cooperative, she wondered if I might feel more comfortable in a different office. I told her I enjoyed sharing an office with you and had learned heaps in the process. She didn’t say any more, just flounced off muttering something about the need for reorganisation.’

‘Tut, tut. Your personnel profile is now sadly smudged.’ Ria could have hugged Simon for his loyalty. She could see the conversation; Lena smooth, Simon measured and slightly puzzled. He was a gentle man, despite the don’t-mess-with-me look, and said what he had to say in a straightforward manner. Well, everything had previously been more straightforward.

‘You know,’ she said, rubbing a tender spot at the back of her neck. ‘Another thing I hate about what’s happening is all the whispering in corners and meetings behind closed doors and people walking past without looking at you or going silent when you come within range. Even our meeting here like this feels shoddy. It’s as if, in trying to work out how to deal with it, you become part of the problem; the subterfuge, conspiracy, gossip.’

‘Well, we have to talk about it. It’s confusing, for a start, and if we stick our heads down we’ll just get our bums kicked.’ Simon placed protective hands behind his own back.

‘I just wish we could work out how to limit the damage.’

Chapter 3

On the last day of that working week, Ria arrived early to tackle her backlog of paperwork. New forms emerged from Lena’s office with astonishing frequency, launched at general staff meetings with a curious mix of pride, panache, and evangelical fervour.

If everyone pulled together and completed these state-of-the-art data generation instruments according to the required schedule, Lena could steer The Portal towards the cutting edge of service provision, establishing the benchmarks of best practice. Yes, the extra work placed additional demands on staff time, but it would pay dividends at the end of the day. With her proven track record for successful funding submissions based on hard scientific data, The Portal was well on its way to becoming the biggest and most successful drug service in the State. This agency would, she promised, be in line for more than its fair share of new money coming down the pipeline for The War on Drugs.

Ria sat doggedly through these motivational speeches, cringing at descriptions of human beings as so many inputs for assessment, deficits for correction, and throughputs for careful recording on the appropriate spreadsheets. Her protest was shared by close colleagues, but they were also aware of how readily they could be dismissed as out of touch and resistant to change. Objections to the accountancy model would need to be couched in its own language, and passed up the line from management to government. This was not going to happen, not at a progressive, forward-thinking organisation like The Portal, which took pride in its shift from welfare to market economy, and probably nowhere else much either. Producing the right numbers was increasingly important to securing funding, and the competition was fierce. Agencies with a will to thrive, or even just survive, did not question the new order, and certainly did not cooperate with each other to do so.

Bending to the fetish for bean counting did not necessarily compromise the work with clients, at least immediately, and Ria was persuaded to keep her head down and dutifully tick boxes according to Lena’s directions. “Choose your battles” was the advice she agreed to follow, at least on this matter, and at least in the short term.

*    *    *

Ria squared her shoulders and walked through the waiting area. What an unwelcoming space, in full view of the entrance and reception staff. Why couldn’t people have somewhere more private to wait? She grabbed her mail and headed upstairs, just in time to see the executive director turning into her own office.

The message light was flashing as Ria dropped her bag and mail on the desk, pulling her list for the day towards her. Mail first, messages next, then forms, and then whatever possible to organise this afternoon’s meeting. She was opening and sorting mail when her routine movements faltered.

She peered at the document clutched in her hand. She brought it closer to her face, pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and looked at it again.

It was not meant for her. That much was clear from the covering note. Scrambling in the paper basket, she turned the envelope upright. Across the corner in large capitals, “CONFIDENTIAL”, and addressed to the executive director.

She shoved the document back in the envelope, resealed it, and wrote on the front: ‘This was left in my pigeonhole. I opened it by mistake. I have not read the contents.’ She grabbed it, and was heading back down the corridor when she saw Lena forging towards her.

They came within arm’s reach at about the halfway point. Ria thrust the envelope across the space and repeated the message she had written on the front. Lena blinked, opened her mouth, closed it again. Ria kept going, down the stairs, out the front door, and into the garden.

Something smells, she thought, and it’s spreading. But the garden’s beautiful, especially on a morning like this. It was one of those cold winter days, frost on the ground, bright blue sky, bare trees like sculptures in still air. Naked limbs stretching towards the light and promise of warmth, gnarled roots keeping faith with the soil.

*    *    *

‘Hi, Ria! How’s it going?’ Jenny plopped onto the bench, swinging her Blundstones under her so tracks appeared among the crusty winter leaves. She held a brown bag towards Ria, oily splotches seeping across the surface. ‘Hot greasy doughnuts,’ she offered, brushing residue from her own freckled face. ‘Hey! What’s up? Any landmines this morning?’

‘Not exactly, Jen, but I think I spoilt some well laid plans.’

Ria took a doughnut, stared at it, held it in both hands.

Jenny sat, leaves and doughnuts neglected.

‘She calls me Maria, you know. Nobody’s done that since I was a kid. Mar-ri-a. Ugh!’

Jenny turned towards Ria, green eyes crinkled with concern. ‘Yeah! You’re not her favourite person, that’s for sure. Well, let’s face it; she doesn’t think much of any of us, really, or our professional skills. Hers being so superior. Twenty-five years of clinical experience, you know.’ She bounced to her feet, hands on hips, and swaggered the length of the bench.

Lena made regular reference to her vast experience and her “clinical exper-teece”, but was somewhat vague about exactly what she had done, where she had done it and the specifics of her background. One of the team had figured that if, indeed, she had twenty-five years of clinical experience, plus the much-touted management experience and training, she must have started work as a professional in her mid teens. ‘It’s a prodigy we have in our midst,’ she had chanted, tugging an imaginary forelock.

The two colleagues were laughing as they walked inside to go about their day. Ria again made her way through the waiting area, somewhat less conscious of its bleak arrangements, and thought about how good it was to laugh. It had always been a strength of the team. They had laughed together, argued together, and supported each other. Lately though, the laughter had become tainted with the extra ingredient of unease.

*    *    *

The rest of Ria’s morning was skirmish-free. Lena was off the premises. The partnership meeting, scheduled for two o’clock, had started more or less on time, and was going better than Ria had expected. The core participants were all there, including seven staff and sixteen clients and ex-clients. The humour was a bit strained perhaps, postures a bit tense, politeness a bit exaggerated.

Ria was providing a rundown on Lena’s requirements for the process, set out in the same memo as the one about Joel and his interview. Joel had not seen this part of the memo and nor had any of the other clients. This had been the first chance to have everyone together.

Just as Ria was finishing, the latest management recruit appeared in the doorway hugging a burnt orange clipboard – part of the emerging motif in office accessories, stationery, and nametags.

Annalisa. That was her name. Annalisa Fraser-Smythe.

Annalisa paused to consult her watch, jotted a note, and tip-tapped across the parquet. Pausing again, this time to smooth her skirt, she arranged herself at the edge of the group, slightly back and opposite Ria.

Ria looked across to provide an opening. Annalisa did not introduce herself and made no comment. She sat upright, ankles crossed, clipboard poised, wide blue eyes looking straight ahead at something only she could see.

The tension was building, and Ria was wondering how best to proceed when Joel leaned forward. Quietly spoken, he was always heard and heads now turned as he summed up the meeting so far.

‘So,’ he said, looking at his notes and then around the group. ‘What we have is that you staff have been told you can’t be involved in this process. Lena will appoint some other member of staff, someone who hasn’t been involved so far, and therefore probably isn’t interested, to coordinate this as a group, even though it isn’t a group in the usual sense, and hasn’t had a coordinator and we haven’t had a chance to have a say. All this in the same organisation that until now, at least apparently, has supported what we’re trying to do. It’s all quite bizarre, but we can’t afford to get bogged down in that now. The rest of us seem to be saying that, although we’ll be sorry to lose you staff, who have done everything possible to make this work, we don’t want the whole thing to fall apart. We’d like to meet with management to talk about future possibilities.’

Nods and murmurs indicated agreement.

Karen, another client participant, wriggled in her seat. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘I think it’s shitty, but I agree there doesn’t seem to be much we can do about it at the moment, if we don’t want to be told where to go as well. Rather than you guys acting as go-betweens though, I think some of us should contact management directly.’ She looked around, slightly pink, but bright-eyed and upright. This had been a long speech for her.

Again, heads nodded.

‘Okay,’ said Ria. ‘We’ll let Lena know what’s been agreed here and to expect a call. And I know I can speak for all us staff when I say we wish you well. We’ll be barracking for you, even if we can’t be directly involved. Let’s have a break and if there’s anything else we should be talking about as a group, we can come back together afterwards.’

Discussion over coffee was unusually restrained and nobody seemed inclined to linger. People drifted outside while Simon and Ria set about restoring the room to its usual order.

‘What do you think?’ asked Simon, buckling under a load of chairs.

‘Mm … give me a minute.’

*    *    *

Ria was remembering the very first client-staff forum, over a year ago now, and an energetic and hopeful affair until the chair of the board had announced that clients could not expect to get representation on the board “… because the board deals with very important matters, uh-hum, that are difficult to understand and best managed, uh-hum, by those with the relevant expertise. The meetings would be quite tedious, uh-hum, if one did not, uh-hum, have solid grounding in governance, the law, and business management.”

He had bustled in importantly late to deliver this patrony, standing erect, in three pieces of pinstripe and tie, projecting carefully enunciated sentences across the heads of his audience, among whom, had he cared to enquire, were a former company director, a human rights lawyer, and an economics major. The target of his exposition appeared to be the honour board of previous eminent chairmen (sic) that hung straight and true, with space for his name, in brassy splendour on its wood-panelled wall at the rear of the hall.

His speech pre-empted discussion that hadn’t even started about the goals of the process, dousing the hopeful atmosphere as effectively as icy buckets. One client crept out, heading for the pub. Another stormed out, steel-toed boots clacking through the stunned silence.

It was probably the chair’s first exposure to real live “drug addicts” and Ria doubted he would rush to repeat it. He had certainly been noticeable by his absence at both Sorry Day events. Taking decisions in the best interests of clients, from the sober regularity of the boardroom was clearly more in keeping with his particular form of noblesse oblige.

*    *    *

The clients had been angry then, but not today. At least, not with the staff who had been part of the process. Ria was aware though, of an appalling betrayal of trust. They had all been in this together and now the staff, albeit unwillingly, were abandoning ship.

‘I think they’re well aware of what’s going on,’ she said, bringing her thoughts back to Simon’s question, ‘and of the tokenism, which of course goes way back, well before Lena started. They still want to push on though, so I guess we just have to hope for the best when they meet with management. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s pretty sad.’ Simon leaned against a teetering stack of chairs. ‘For us staff, mostly. The clients still seem optimistic. It’s good they’re determined to carry on. It means the process really was a shared thing, not dependent on us. And that means we achieved at least some of what we set out to do.’

‘That’s a good way of looking at it. I just hope nobody’s going to get too hurt. My fear is they’re a combination of far too smart, and not nearly grateful enough, for Lena’s liking.’

Just as they were closing the room, the house phone rang. Simon reached for it, but before he could get the handset to his ear, they could both hear Lena’s voice. ‘You are required at a meeting in my office. Now.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Simon, winking at Ria. ‘I couldn’t quite understand what you said. Let me adjust my hearing aid. This is Simon, by the way. Who is it I’m speaking to?’

‘I know it’s you, Simon. And I know Ria’s down there with you. You’re holding up a meeting.’ The line went dead.

‘She still didn’t say who it was.’ He held the handset away from his face, blew a kiss towards it, and replaced it on its cradle. ‘Perhaps we should head up to the pay office. Maybe we’re getting a raise.’

‘Sure.’ Ria made for the stairs, aware her next client was due in fifteen minutes.

*    *    *

It was standing room only when they arrived at Lena’s office. Eight people were already there: the five other professional staff who had been involved in the partnership process, the executive director and, flanking her, Ruth the deputy, and Annalisa the protégé who had crashed the partnership meeting and was clearly part of the inner circle.

Ria moved into the office with Simon and straightened her back. You too, she silently urged her colleagues. Sit tall. Look up. We are competent professionals, not naughty children awaiting our fate in the Principal’s office.

The room was deadly quiet as Lena moved forward in her chair, spreading her forearms across the desk and looking from side to side. ‘Before we start,’ she said, each word loud and clear. ‘The rules of this meeting are that nothing I say goes beyond these walls. Anyone who has a problem with that should leave. Is that understood?’ She looked directly at Ria. Ria returned her look. No other eye contact was made in the room.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Ria, trying to think through the situation. ‘It depends on what’s said, so it’s not possible to make promises ahead of time.’

Lena gripped the papers on her desk and spoke in a slow monotone. ‘Anyone who is not prepared to abide by the rules of the meeting should leave.’

Her ample cheeks had taken on a mottled pattern.

‘I think I should leave.’ Ria moved towards the door, noting the still life around her. Turning back she looked at Lena, now almost purple, and stated her position as clearly as the buzz in her head would allow. ‘I don’t believe you can do this, Lena. I don’t believe you have the right; nobody has the right to this sort of secrecy. In order to stay, I would need …’

Lena thumped the desk. ‘Don’t even go there, Ria. Just who do you think you are? Get out if you’re going; give me your guarantee if you’re staying.’ Lena pointed towards the door, half-standing, head jutting.

Ria left the room. Leaden legs dragged down the corridor, back aching and shoulders stiff. The speaking body she mused, as she gazed into the garden, seeking the comfort she had found there that morning. Her client should have arrived by now. She waited five minutes, and rang down to reception. Her appointment was cancelled. Just as well. She could call it a day.

*    *    *

She looked up as she heard someone approaching. Jenny appeared, flopping into a chair and lolling her head against the wall. There was none of this morning’s bounce in her slumped body. ‘I think you should’ve stayed in the meeting, Ria,’ she said, reaching for the lolly jar, but sagging back without managing to grasp it.

Ria reached over, opened the jar and propped it on Jenny’s lap. ‘I couldn’t stay there, Jen,’ she said. ‘Lena’s got this twisted definition of confidentiality, and I won’t support it. You know, even when we promise confidentiality to clients we spell out the limits. If they’re threatening harm to self or others etcetera, etcetera. What she wants is unconditional secrecy, to which she alone is entitled, and which gives her cover to behave in whatever way she chooses.’ Jenny was nodding agreement as Ria finished with a question. ‘Did the rules of the meeting include not telling me what went on?’

‘No, they didn’t, actually. And she didn’t exactly say which walls it was to stay within.’ Jenny peered into the lolly jar before continuing with a rush. ‘Oh, Ria, she said you’ve been working too long in the field and have taken on the characteristics of the clients. That you’re trying to lead a Neo-Nazi Marxist plot against her. That you and Joel have been plotting and scheming against her in counselling sessions. That she can tell by looking at him he has brain damage. That anyone with any clinical skills would be able to tell, and you’re supposed to be the senior psychologist.’ Jenny paused to draw breath.

‘Omigod,’ Ria mouthed. ‘A Neo-Nazi Marxist plot? That takes some figuring. And she needs to study her drugs. Joel’s never taken anything known to cause brain damage. He was a heroin and tranx user, no alcohol, not even cannabis. And, I bet she knows, ‘cos I bet she’s checked out his file, he was given the all-clear on brain damage after his overdose.’

‘And you know how thoughtful and reasoned he is,’ Jenny continued. ‘Well, she’s terrified of him. Terrified. That he’ll find out where she lives and come round and … And, how do we think she feels? She’s got her daughter to protect as well, you know. And do we think she’s the sort of person who’ll stand for this? No, she’s too strong to watch you wreak havoc with all she’s worked so hard for.’ Jenny acted out the cringing, the chest-thumping, the vicious prods in Ria’s direction.

Ria felt herself moving back. ‘She might be funny if she wasn’t so dangerous.’

‘Yeah. And do you know how hard she’s tried with you? Oh, yes, she’s tried everything. Cajoled. Scolded. Threatened. Reasoned. Sucked up, even. But, she’s lost so much sleep. It’s been so awful for her. She’s sure that we, unlike you, would understand that … and now why don’t we all go out for a drink, on the house of course, and just forget all about it?’

Ria stared at Jenny, dazed by a blast of emotion that churned her gut. ‘Thanks, Jen, for filling me in,’ she managed through stiff jaw. ‘It’s going to take a while to gather my wits. I’ll think about it over the weekend.’

‘Well, remember, I’m around and available.’ Jenny brushed Ria’s arm. ‘You’re important to us, Ria, and to the soul of this place. Such as it is these days.’

Ria was startled, remembering something the receptionist had said a couple of days earlier. ‘Funny you should say that, Jen. Someone else said something the other day about the place losing its soul. It rang true, somehow, but gave me a jolt. I thought I’d let go of that stuff years ago – good, bad, evil, sin, heaven, hell. Is there something about this situation that brings out fundamentalist thinking?’

‘The forces of good against the forces of evil,’ Jenny boomed, extending her arm and stabbing her forefinger in a semicircle around an imaginary congregation.

‘Enough, Jen.’ Ria stood, giving Jenny a hug before saying goodbye so they could get out of the place and go home.

*    *    *

Heading out towards the carpark, Ria could see she might not be able to leave quite yet. Four of the participants from the meeting were huddled under the jacaranda tree.

‘Got a minute, Ria?’ called Joel.

‘Sure,’ replied Ria. ‘Is it something you all want to talk to me about, or just you, Joel?’

‘Just me, at the moment. The others have been helping get my head straight.’

Ria told herself to focus on Joel, not anticipate what he had to say, and just listen. They settled on the bench, leaving the others to continue their conversation.

‘I’m feeling lousy,’ Joel began, wrapping his body in muscular arms – bare to the biceps despite the bitter cold. ‘I think I’ve blown it over that memo, and I’m guessing that’s behind a lot of what went on in our meeting today.’

One arm unfurled to scratch between rusty dreadlocks. ‘I should’ve known. It was a few days ago, your day off, when three of us met with Lena and her offsiders. I let drop I’d seen the memo. I could see Lena was furious. She sort of puffed up and went all red and said “We’ll see about that” and laughed that laugh that starts in her throat and comes out her nose. And now you’ve all been pulled out of the process and I feel guilty.’ Scratch, scratch. ‘I think I should apologise.’ The leaves under Joel’s feet got a sound scuffing.

‘To whom?’ Ria asked.

‘To you. To her. I don’t know.’ Scuff. Scratch.

‘Not to me and not to Lena, either, in my opinion. I talked to you about the memo, Joel, as I would to anyone under the circumstances. Because I talked to you, I was able to set the record straight. If anything, Lena owes you an apology for acting on assumptions she didn’t check out.’

‘If I’d just kept my mouth shut, though, none of this would’ve happened. Or, couldn’t you just have let her think I’d got hold of it without anyone else knowing? An off-the-back-of-a-truck sort of thing?’ Scuff. ‘Nah. Silly question.’ Scratch. ‘Do you always have to be so straight, Ria?’ Joel managed to sound both exasperated and resigned.

‘I’ll take that on notice. In the meantime, though Joel, I can say I wouldn’t change what I did, nor would I attempt to hide it from Lena. The fact that she doesn’t like what I did is a problem, but not your problem. It’s ours – hers and mine. It’s about different ways of working.’

‘So, you’re telling me not to worry about it.’ Feet still, hands gripping the bench.

‘I can’t tell you not to worry about it. If you’re going to, you will. I am saying it’s not your responsibility. Maybe your responsibility is to look out for yourself?’

‘Yeah. I’m not going to let this get me … Anyway, it looks like the others are getting sick of waiting over there. I’d better get back to them.’ Joel jumped up, dusting off his jeans.

Ria waved goodbye as she got into her car.

Chapter 4

Driving towards home, Ria thought longingly of an open fire, a good book or, if she was lucky, a game of Scrabble. It would depend on who was around.

She pushed open the front door.

‘Is that you, Mum?’

The muffled voice came from Connor’s room on her left. As she came level with his door, she could see his legs sticking out under the bed. Behind and around him was a jumble of wind-cheaters, t-shirts, pants, and jackets. She dropped her bag on a crumpled black garment.

‘Do you know where my new jeans are?’ He was emerging backwards from under the bed. ‘I need to leave by eight, and I can’t find them. Could we have dinner before then?’ He was on all fours, scanning the floor. ‘The dog’s limping, did you know?’ He continued to rummage.

‘You haven’t seen my jeans, have you, Cady?’ He shot a look at his sister as she came into the room, dog limping beside her.

‘What’s for dinner, Mum?’ Cady ignored her brother. ‘Lee wants to sleepover. Is that okay?’

Ria dropped onto Connor’s bed and patted the dog. ‘Yes. No. Yes. No. Don’t know. Yes. Good to see you both, too.’

‘Aw, Mum,’ said Connor, looking at her properly for the first time, and jumping to his feet. ‘You don’t look too good. Hey, why don’t you go and sit down.’ He turned her towards the door with his strong guitarist’s fingers.

‘And,’ added Cady, peering at her mother as well, ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea and talk to Dad about dinner and stuff.’ She gave her mother one of her generous hugs and steered her out of Connor’s room. ‘Come on, Boofy. You can keep Mummy company while we get organised.’

‘You’re both worth cloning.’ Ria allowed herself to be led down the corridor and into an armchair in the living area off the kitchen. Cady pushed a footstool under her feet and draped an Indian shawl over her lap. ‘Thanks, m’darling, every luxury. Where’s John, by the way, and what about Lee?’

‘Oh, you know Dad; glued to his computer down the back as usual. I’ll go and talk to him in a minute and let him know you’re here. Lee’s fine. She’s in my room, reading comics.’ John had a treasured collection of Carl Barks Disney comics, and Cady had recently been deemed sufficiently mature to treat these relics with due reverence.

Ria loosened her shoulders, letting some of the tension ease. They weren’t bad for an eighteen-year-old and an eleven-year-old. Even so, she must look wrecked to warrant this reaction. She hadn’t said anything to them about what was happening at work, but kids could surprise with their spurts of empathy. She remembered the time she had noticed Connor limping after she had surgery on her left foot. ‘My leg hurts too,’ he had said as if stating the obvious, but also startled to hear himself saying so.

She continued to sit as the promised tea was produced and dinner preparations started. John, Connor, Cady and Lee were now in the kitchen arguing about the relative merits of spaghetti bolognaise, carbonara or salmon fettuccine for dinner.

‘But, I know how to do bolognaise,’ John was protesting, as Cady rooted through the cupboard for a tin of red salmon, and Connor produced the recipe for carbonara.

‘Exactly,’ said Connor. ‘Every time you cook dinner … Anyway, there’s no mince thawed,’ he added, poking through the fridge and pulling out a can of cola.

‘Okay.’ John raised both hands. ‘I’ll cook something else – on condition I get help. And that means hanging around.’

‘No time, very sorry.’ Connor backed out of the kitchen and headed for the bathroom.

‘Lee and I’ll help, Dad,’ said Cady, dismissing Connor with the back of her hand. ‘It’ll be fun. But it’s got to be the fettuccine. Let’s go.’

Ria let it all float over her. She wasn’t about to butt in, not tonight. What about the mess afterwards, though? ‘Tut! Tut! What a very Mum reaction,’ she answered herself – aloud. By golly, she was losing her grip. Cady was usually meticulous about cleaning up after she’d been in the kitchen. Connor wasn’t bad either if you were prepared to wait long enough, but John’s standards were definitely below par, although if you talked to him he would say her standards were unrealistic.

The dog, meanwhile, had spread herself in front of the footstool, occasionally thumping her tail or struggling up far enough to push her long, black nose into Ria’s lap. She was a seven-year-old kelpie-shaped bitser they had brought home from the lost dogs’ shelter when she was eighteen months old, untrained and probably maltreated in puppyhood. She had initially been frightened of the car until she discovered cars took you to places like bushland and beaches. She was still frightened of some strangers, and would tremble and wet herself if they came too close. She was trusting and affectionate though, with people she knew, and was pretty much the centre of the household. Even when people were at odds with each other, everyone loved the dog. And she loved everyone, with her big heart, her gentle ways and her knowing nuzzles. The four feet on the ground and the fur on her face were frequently remarked with considerable surprise.

‘You’ve got soul, haven’t you, you beautiful creature.’ Ria pressed her forehead into the softness between the dog’s ears. ‘What would dog heaven be like for you, I wonder? Apart from some place where all your people stayed in one spot … Let me have a look at your paw. Mm … you’ve been chewing it, haven’t you?’

Boofy left her paw resting in Ria’s lap and looked up with mournful brown eyes, a tip of red tongue protruding from the side of her closed mouth.

*    *    *

By eight-thirty the house was quiet. They had sat down to a curious mixture of gluggy fettuccine with stiff ends, and porridgy pink sauce. John had eaten with his usual gusto, Ria had done her best, and the young people had filled up on doorstops of bread, cheese and satay sauce. Connor, bless him, had set the fire in the lounge room before bounding off for a weekend’s camping – wearing his jeans. John had taken Cady and Lee to play with Lee’s new computer, and stay over with her family for the night.

By the time John got back, Ria was sprawled in front of the blaze. She had a book propped in front of her, but the effort involved in making sense of the words was beyond her. John kicked off his shoes and settled at the other side of the hearth.

‘What’s happening at that madhouse of yours?’ he asked, reaching over to Ria’s arm that sagged over the side of the armchair.

‘It’s not a madhouse. Not really.’ She turned towards him, pulling toasted legs up to rest on his thighs. ‘It’s amazing, though, to watch the effect Lena’s having. Lots of people following the leader, some uncomfortable, others silent, everyone fearful. And then there’s me. She frightens me too, although I can’t always take her seriously, and I detest bullies.’ As she spoke, Ria felt the fog lifting. She straightened out of her rag doll pose and stretched her softened limbs.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said John, nodding. ‘You’ll become some sort of object. She’ll make an example of you. Trample all over you as a lesson to everyone else.’

Ria looked at her partner of almost thirty years, surprised by his terse assessment. She shouldn’t have been, she knew. John sometimes gave the impression of occupying an eccentric bubble, but was more than capable of tuning in to the everyday world when the situation demanded.

‘There’s certainly a lot going on,’ she said, thinking of recent examples. ‘You know about the memo she claimed was confidential. Well, today I believe she planted a truly confidential document in my pigeonhole, hoping to catch me in the act of reading it. Then some client notes disappeared off my desk. I searched everywhere, but didn’t find them. Simon hadn’t touched them. I asked him. I know where I left them and they just disappeared. Of course, they’re confidential too, and I’m worried about where they’ll surface. Oh, and I walked out on a meeting because I couldn’t support her demands for secrecy.

‘On top of all that, I found out today the woman she employed, without advertising, to do some sort of project work, has been promised a full time position on the counselling team. We have one day unfilled and of course my four days would make up a full time load.’

Ria stopped, and chewed her lower lip. She could go on, but didn’t need to. Her head might be spinning, but John was calm.

‘Mm,’ he said. ‘What’s your Union got to say?’

‘I haven’t spoken to Warren. I left a message but haven’t heard back.’

She hadn’t chased him, she realised, probably because his involvement so far had fuelled Lena’s rage without achieving anything constructive. Not his fault. Unionism was obviously another red rag.

‘I think I’m going to have to resign,’ she continued. ‘Get in first, so to speak. I don’t want to, but nor do I see any chance of salvaging the situation. I don’t even think that’s on Lena’s agenda.’

John leaned back and closed his eyes, feet worrying the wrought iron fender. He was obviously thinking about how to respond and Ria didn’t want to rush him. ‘Look,’ he said, when he came upright again. ‘I’m with you, whatever you decide. But don’t rush into anything. You’re not back there until Tuesday.’

‘No, I won’t.’ Ria grabbed his hands. He could drive her to distraction with his disorganised brilliance, but apart from anything else he was her best friend, always there at the crunch. ‘You’re the best! I’ll let the dust settle over the weekend and see how I feel. After tonight though, I’m not going to let it spoil the weekend, although I may ring Clare. She’s working where Lena came from, and before Lena started with us, she said something like “Oh, you’ve got Lena. Sorry about that.” I let it pass. I hadn’t even met Lena at that stage.’

‘I know.’ John sighed. ‘You like to meet people on their own terms. But in this case forewarned might have been forearmed.’

‘Maybe. Anyway, how about some coffee and port? You stay there, I’ll get it.’

‘Won’t coffee keep you awake at this hour?’

‘Probably. But, then, I probably won’t sleep much anyway. And we might as well enjoy our unaccustomed Friday night quiet.’

By the time Ria returned with a tray, John was nodding in his chair. ‘Well, so much for that, eh, Boofy – the last of the great ragers. Might as well clean up, sort a few things out. What do you think?’

The dog tilted her head, pricked her ears and followed Ria out to the kitchen, nuzzling her face into Ria’s leg as they walked.

*    *    *

The next morning Ria rang Clare. The two women had known each other through work connections for several years and occasionally met for coffee or lunch. They enjoyed their time together and tried to spend it talking about things other than work. Clare was a big woman with a big heart, a big voice and a big laugh. She sounded her usual cheerful self as she asked Ria what she was up to.

Ria got straight to the point. ‘I won’t pretend I’ve rung just to be sociable. It’s about work. Well, Lena actually. You made a comment a while back, before she started with us, and I wondered if you could fill me in. Sorry to ring at this hour on a Saturday, but I think I’m in deep shit.’

‘Oh, boy! Can’t say I’m surprised. Look, how about we meet for coffee at Bruno’s in, say, an hour. It’s going to be nice by then, and we could sit outside and be relatively private. It’d be good to see you, anyway.’

‘You’re a sweetie. Thanks. See you about eleven-thirty, then.’

Ria spent the available time containing the mess of the week, wiping benches and tables, sweeping the worst of the dog hair and crumbs out the back door, stripping beds and loading the washing machine.

How was it everyone seemed so conveniently absent on Saturday mornings, she grumbled to herself, not for the first time, as she darted from pantry to fridge to bathroom and laundry making a list for the afternoon’s shopping expedition.

‘Self-preservation,’ Connor had informed her once, with quiet patience. ‘Nobody stands in the path of a willy-willy by choice. Taking to the bunkers is sound strategy.’

He had always been a precocious child. Sometimes that made her proud. Sometimes it made her laugh. Sometimes it made her want to … never mind. Now was not the time.

She found John in his shed and went in search of her daughter. Cady was propped in a bean bag in the lounge room, book in hand and dog lying beside her, still wearing the clothes she had no doubt slept in at Lee’s. Ria told her she was on her way out to see Clare but would be back in time to take Cady to her two o’clock class. Cady had recently won a place in a cartooning workshop and loved it. There was no need to issue instructions about showering and changing. Cady would be ready.

‘Okay, Mummy.’ Cady snuggled further into her bean bag. ‘Say hello to Clare for me. She’s fun.’

She is fun, thought Ria, as she pulled up near Bruno’s a few minutes later. She’s also straightforward and sensible.

*    *    *

They arrived together outside Bruno’s, found a spot in the sun, and ordered coffee. Bruno’s was the unimaginative name for a quaint café that had once been the caretaker’s cottage in the local park. It dated to the 1890s and retained many original features of iron lace, ceiling roses and stained glass. Ria had tried to count the colours in the ceiling roses once, but had given up when her neck got stiff.

Tables were set on the return verandah and deckchairs on the paved area that spread towards lawns and playground equipment. Flowerbeds were dug over for winter and a fountain soared and sprayed the artificial home of ducks, swans and eels. Squabbling seagulls surrounded children who clutched chunks of stale bread and accompanying adults watched more or less anxiously for tumbles and pecks.

Clare had been right, and the weak winter sun was just warm enough to enjoy sitting outside. ‘It’s good to see you,’ said Clare, pulling her deckchair closer. ‘Although you’re looking a bit worse for wear already, I fancy.’ She gave Ria the sort of once-over that from someone else might prickle the skin. ‘Thinner than usual, and a bit green about the gills.’

‘Gee, thanks. That makes me feel so much better. Tell me about yourself first, though, before we get bogged down in my stuff.’

Clare had been in a relationship for five years, but her partner spent more than half each year travelling for work. Sometimes it seemed hard for Clare, but most of the time she threw herself into sports, hobbies and community activities. She brought Ria up to date on indoor hockey and women’s football, and then told her the latest on the campaign to get a pardon for a woman who had killed her husband after years of physical, sexual and emotional abuse.

‘It’s good to see people pulling together on this,’ she said. ‘I could go on for hours, but I’m not going to. It’d be good to avoid the topic we’re here for, but I’m not going to do that either. I’ve seen Lena operate. If she wants to get rid of you, she will. We lost really good people because they rubbed her up the wrong way. She really humiliated me once, in front of a couple of visiting bureaucrats, about a decision I’d made in good faith. She’s done similar things to other young practitioners, although I think we’re just for sport. You’re different – much more of a threat. You know, when I first met you, I was incredibly nervous …’

‘Ouch,’ Ria interjected. ‘I’m beginning to feel like Lena – threatening, scary.’

‘You know I don’t mean that.’

A toddler chose this moment to lurch in their direction, making a break from his mother towards the lake. Ria twisted around, just managing to swing him clear of the deckchair.

There were a few confused moments, toddler chortling, enjoying the game, mother rushing up, gormless woolly dog tangling with the stroller, older child trailing behind with a bag of bread. The mother grabbed the toddler, looking as if she wanted to shake him but hugging him instead, and then dumping him firmly in the stroller and securing the safety belt.

‘If you want to feed the ducks, you can do it from there,’ she said, stroking copper-coloured curls from creamy forehead, and disentangling the dog who had settled on its lead, tongue lolling and drooling. She headed them all towards the lake, thanking Ria and smiling ruefully.

‘Phew!’ said Clare, as they settled themselves. ‘Aren’t you glad yours are past that stage? Anyway, back to Lena. It sounds like she’s getting to you already. Don’t let her. Get a grip and hold on tight. You’re threatening to people like Lena because … well, who knows? I was a bit daunted at first because you’re so clear about your principles, and uncompromising about putting them into practice. I respect that, and other people do too, but it baffles Lena. She controls through fear. Or prizes. Carrots and sticks.’

‘So, how does she keep getting away with it? And why do people employ her? In our field? How can practitioners possibly do the work they’re supposed to do with clients if they’re being harassed by management? She doesn’t seem to trust anyone’s professional judgement. It’s impossible to work like that.’ Ria sagged under a wave of fatigue that washed up from her toes.

‘I think, dear friend, you are missing the point,’ Clare responded, her voice hard-edged. ‘Lena is very employable because Lena brings in the money. Community organisations are bending in the wind of our economic times. They need people like Lena. She is competitive and likes to win. She not only brings in the money but can be given full discretion in the hiring and firing of staff, so that boards, and umbrella bodies like churches, are comfortably distanced from the likes of you who might stick your heads up with unwelcome reminders of how far they’re straying from their mission statements.’

‘Pains in the neck, in other words.’ Ria clasped her hands behind her head, momentarily closing her eyes.

Clare gave one of her appraising looks. Apparently satisfied with the matter-of-factness of the comment, she pushed on.

‘There are better ways of putting it but, yes, something like that. And, while we’re on this tricky topic, have you ever thought about the possibility that you might be just too upright to live?’

Again that appraising look; Ria smiled at her friend to let her know she wasn’t about to take offence at her straight talk.

‘Yes, and no,’ she said, the words coming out on a sigh. ‘Yes, in that you’re not the first person to tell me something similar, especially if you count John’s advice over the years to get rid of whatever it is that’s stuck up my back before it causes serious damage. No, if you’re asking whether I’m prepared to do anything about it, not when it comes to important things, anyway.’

‘I thought as much. Even if you wanted a makeover, it’s probably a bit late, I fear. But, Ria…’

‘I know… look, if I start doing anything really unravelled – like going shopping without a shopping list – I’ll know, believe me, and I’ll book myself into a health farm for a week. Promise.’

‘Don’t take this lightly, my friend.’

‘I’m not, honestly, but unfunny jokes seem to go with the territory.’

As she parted from Clare, she felt clearer. She was not worried, at this stage, about coping; there had been plenty of time and opportunity since childhood to learn the skills; but she would not be blasé either. There was a lot to think about and do and she needed to stay on top of things. She was also aware she was not willing, or able, to make herself acceptable to Lena. She would, however, acknowledge Lena’s determination to do what she was apparently employed to do. There was no point in a showdown. She would write out her letter of resignation and take it into work on Tuesday.

*    *    *

On the Monday afternoon following that weekend of decision, Ria was slumped at her computer drafting her letter of resignation, or at least staring at the blank screen. It was a grey, mean day of the sort Melbourne provides in winter, and her mood was as bleak as the weather.

A bang on the front door startled her upright. She would normally have welcomed the distraction of a visitor, but this was someone the dog did not recognise. Boofy rushed up the corridor, hair raised along the ridge of her spine, growling deep in her belly. Ria told her to sit, which she did beautifully, paws neatly together, head up, ears pricked. She was still very much on the alert as Ria stepped around her to open the front door.

A grey figure stood well clear of the entrance and stretched a clipboard across the empty space. ‘Courier delivery. Could you sign for it, please?’

Ria signed in the required spot, and unclipped the envelope, noting The Portal crest. A courier delivery from work? Curious. What could there be that couldn’t wait until tomorrow or be done by phone? Still standing at the open front door, she ripped open the envelope and scanned the contents.

Phrases and sentences jumped from the page as she groped for the cane chair outside the door, sitting with a thud that jarred her spine. “Your recent conduct …” “… unable to respect confidentiality …” “… unethical …” “… breach of contractual obligations …” “… legal advice … further conduct of this kind … termination of employment …” “…not required to attend work …”

The letter was signed by Lena.

‘You …’ Ria clamped her mouth as astonishment, outrage, confusion and fear rose in competing waves. This couldn’t be happening – could it? Some sort of sick joke? Clearly not. Lena was building a case around her peculiar definition of confidentiality that Ria did not share. But, so what? Lena was in a position to define the terms.

She felt tears wetting her cheeks and let them flow momentarily before brushing them impatiently aside. This was no time to wallow, sitting around like a stunned mullet. What to do? Ring the Union. Leave a message on Warren’s mobile if necessary. Let him know it’s urgent.

Making a deliberate effort to move slowly, she levered herself to her feet, picked up the letter, shut the front door, checked Warren’s number in her address book, and settled herself in a comfortable chair with the phone.

She dialled and was lucky, for a change, greeted after the third ring with a gruff “hello”. She explained about the letter.

‘Read it.’

She started well enough. She was used to Warren’s abrupt manner, but the sound of her own voice loosened her grip. Abandoning the chair, she paced the kitchen tiles.

‘Warren, I haven’t breached my contractual agreement. My contractual agreement deals with confidentiality of information we obtain from clients. That memo was an internal, administrative document, written by her, not marked confidential, not delivered in envelopes, left in open pigeonholes where anyone could have read it. It actually directed us to make the contents clear to clients.’

‘Okay, Ria. Slow down. I know it’s a beat-up. I’ll give her a ring, but I’ll need a copy of her letter. Don’t go to work until I sort something out. She’s either got to sack you outright, in which case we’ll go straight to an unfair dismissals hearing, or she’s got to put a formal disciplinary process in motion, or she’s got to come to the table to thrash things out. I’ll have to talk to her to pin her down.’

Warren stopped to draw breath. ‘How are you feeling?’ The tone was softer now.

‘A bit rattled,’ said a squeaky voice.

Ria swiped her eyes. ‘Well, very rattled, to be honest. I feel as if I’m in a double bind. If I go into work, it’s on her terms, under her definition of confidentiality, which I don’t accept. If I stay home under this suspension arrangement, she can interpret that as refusal to respect confidentiality. It feels like lose-lose to me. And to make matters worse, I was just writing my letter of resignation …’ Her voice disappeared through the top of her head.

‘Hold off on the resignation letter, and hang in there. She’s just baring her teeth.’

Ria reached for her water. ‘Yeah, well, they’re starting to look pretty long and sharp. Reminds me of those instructions about swimming with sharks.’

‘What instructions?’

Ria returned to her chair. ‘Things you should know before getting into the water, like what to do if you’re attacked, how sharks react to the sight of blood, consequences of ignoring instructions, that sort of thing.’

‘I seem to remember you bragging to me once about being a good swimmer, swimming three times a week, sixty laps a time or something.’ Warren chuckled, a sound Ria had not previously heard.

‘I am, and I do – in a chlorinated pool. I’ve never seen a shark in it. Even the big, beefy guys who can’t seem to contain their limbs in one lane don’t seem malicious. Just clumsy, as if they need swimming lessons themselves.’

‘Anyway,’ said Warren, returning to no-nonsense mode. ‘You’d better get busy bringing me a copy of that letter.’

The dog was hovering as Ria hung up the phone. Ria crouched to pat and hug. ‘It’s okay, Boofy. You’re a good dog, yes you are. You’re beautiful.’ She collected papers, keys and purse, wrote a note for Cady in case she got home from school before her, and headed off, stopping at the local newsagent’s to get her photocopies.

Warren was not in the office when she got there, so she left the copies and a covering note with the receptionist. When she got back to her car, she turned immediately towards home. Home, she thought, and remembered a story she had read to her children when they were little. About a small, fluffy, caramel-coloured dog who was looking for a home, and all that he suffered along the way. He did eventually find a loving home, and the moral of the story was that everybody needs one. Cats, dogs, horses, cows, and people. Everybody needs a home.

Chapter 5

The comfort of her own home did not immediately register for Ria when she stirred the following morning. She surfaced through flashes of a dim, featureless room with no windows and a small figure backed into one corner. Several much larger figures brandished rolled-up newspapers and chanted ‘oompa, oompa, you’ll be sorry, you’ll be sorry’. The small figure straightened and lengthened, but was knocked onto its back by a masked shape in cricket whites who sprang from one of the newspapers swinging a baseball bat.

‘That’s not cricket,’ the small figure protested as it struggled to right itself.

Ria fought with the doona and threw her arms out from under, nearly swiping John who was standing beside her.

‘Hey, steady on,’ he said. ‘No need for that. It’s only a cup of coffee.’

The familiar craggy face was a welcome sight as Ria pulled herself upright and reached for her glasses. ‘Sorry. Had a bad dream. Thanks.’ She didn’t feel rested. In fact, she felt battered, and mumbled something along these lines into her coffee mug.

‘You have been pretty busy.’ John propped himself on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s hazardous sleeping with you these days.’ He smoothed the skin between her eyes, drawing it across her forehead. ‘You’re brooding on all this, I can see. But,’ and he held up an index finger to stop her interrupting. ‘I’ve got a special good idea. Why don’t we take the kids up to the snow for the day? We’ve been promising to do it for ages, and before you go listing all the obstacles, Connor’s free, and it can’t matter if Cady misses a day once in a blue moon. I’m overdue for some time off, and you’re not going to work. Give us all some time-out.’

‘Okay,’ said Ria, surprising herself as well as John. ‘What the heck. It’ll be worth it just to see Cady’s face when she hears she doesn’t have to go to school. But I need to call in at work first. Collect a few things.’

‘Let’s get moving.’ John headed off to wake Connor and Cady, Boofy dancing around his legs, woofing excitedly at unknown possibilities.

In less than an hour, they were on their way, John marvelling at the effect of motivation on speed of movement. Cady and Connor had been up, showered, dressed and breakfasted within forty minutes, not a snarl or bicker between them. They had gathered together Walkmans, tapes, lolly tin, rugs, and pillows – essentials for the trip, Boofy rushing around after them until she was told she had to stay home. She stood in Connor’s doorway watching them leave, doleful and uncomprehending of destinations unfriendly to animals.

*    *    *

Arriving at The Portal, Ria stopped at reception to let them know she would not be around and made a dash for her room, grateful the corridor was quiet. She collected the things she had come for, and was turning to leave when some photos from the first forum caught her attention. Groups of people sitting around talking about what client-staff partnership meant for them. They looked engrossed. They had been engrossed.

She pulled the photos from the corkboard and slid them into her diary. Then, without further thought, she was dragging bags from under her desk and sweeping her possessions from around the room. Books, folders, photos, posters, knick-knacks. In they went, willy-nilly, tumbling, spilling, and clattering.

She didn’t hear Simon, but sensed his presence. She swung around to where he was standing framed by the doorway, still gripping his bag, eyes moving from blank walls to bare shelves to clear desktop.

‘Simon.’ She took a step towards him and reached out a hand, but then put it up to her own face instead. Her cheeks were hot and sweaty. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to do this now, but I won’t be back. There’ve been some developments.’ Her voice petered out. She pointed towards his desk. ‘I wrote something last night when I couldn’t sleep. I’m not even sure who I wrote it for – you, myself, others in the team. Anyway, it helped a bit, and I thought you might like it.’

Simon reached over and picked up the envelope. ‘Will you read it to me, Ria?’ he asked, dropping his bag with a thud on the carpet.

Ria took the envelope as they sat facing each other. Simon was very still, slightly forward in his chair, favoured ear angled towards her.

‘It’s sort of a letter of farewell,’ she said, looking at what she had written and wondering whether she was about to make things better or worse; too late to renege now, though. She ripped off the covering note that was no longer relevant and gripped the sheet in white-fingered hands. Swallowing through the lump in her throat, she began to read.

Can my right be turned into wrong by those with the might to define right? Colleagues once told me I needed game-skills. I despise playing games, I said. I have no respect for the rules. I particularly dislike power-ball. Such are the consequences. I have lost faith and hope. I have lost faith in the possibility of a just world. I have lost faith in the possibility of social and organisational change.

She stopped to clear her throat. Simon touched her hand, silently inviting her to continue, when she was ready.

Without personal hope, what hope have I got of nurturing hope in clients? I believe that nurturing hope is the most important contribution we can make.

‘Yes!’ Simon leaned further forward, nodding vigorously. ‘And you’ve done it, Ria. I believe you’ll get through this and do it again.’

Ria’s head moved from side to side. She knew Simon meant what he said, but she equally knew he was wrong.

There seems no point for me in continuing to work within this organisation. I have dearly valued working with some colleagues. I have been privileged to work with many clients. I will remember the team as the best I have ever worked within. I do not expect to work within such a team or such an organisation again. I think such teams are rare. I will certainly protect myself from being part of a similar organisation.

She would never work in such an organisation again. She knew, in that moment, with wordless certainty. She would, however, do what she could to get justice from this one. She might be naive, but she was damned if she would roll over to a bully.

Such thoughts straightened her spine, and her voice was richer as she finished her letter.

Compassion and passion are perhaps anachronisms, but I have seen them demonstrated by close colleagues. Courage and creativity are qualities I much admire. I have admired them in many clients.

Thankyou to those who have supported me during the good and tough times.

She looked up through hot eyes into Simon’s wet face. Four hands reached across the gap, as birds twittered from branches of jacaranda and a busy blowfly danced against the window.

‘I can’t believe it’s come to this,’ Simon whispered. ‘I don’t believe this organisation will just let you go.’

‘It’s not letting me go.’ Ria’s words were clipped. ‘It’s pushing me out. Lena mostly, but I haven’t noticed the other managers standing in her way.’

‘What’s the agenda, that’s what I don’t understand. Where are they coming from? Who stands to gain what by getting rid of you? It doesn’t make sense.’ Simon stared at the bare light bulb as if it might provide the simple explanation he had somehow overlooked.

‘It makes sense to Lena.’ Ria paced the room. ‘Not your sense, or my sense, but heh, that’s not her problem. As far as the rest of management goes, I think they’ve done some lessons we haven’t, and they’ve done them well. Look after your own interests first, second, and last. Don’t stick your neck out for anyone with less power than yourself. Always agree with the boss, even if it goes against your principles.’

‘It’s hard to tell whether you’re mostly sad or mostly angry,’ said Simon, pulling Ria back into her chair and studying her face through squinted eyes. She anchored both hands to the edges. He heard partly with his eyes, she knew that, but it was hard to sit still.

‘I’m all over the place,’ she said, arms waving in front of her face. ‘Even if I hadn’t been put on some quasi-suspension, I don’t think I’d be fit for work.’

‘What do you mean, quasi-suspension?’ Simon frowned.

‘I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have mentioned it now, because I can’t stop to explain. John and the kids are waiting in the car. We’re going to the snow for the day. Can we talk later?’ Ria realised she had been gone more than half an hour, having said she would be a few minutes.

‘Sure. I’ll help you down with this stuff, and we’ll catch up soon. Tomorrow. I’ll ring you or you ring me. We’ll organise something.’

‘Thanks, Simon. And, you know, I’m going now, but I’m not finished. I was going to resign today, but I can’t now. I’ve got to fight.’

‘Good for you.’ Simon made a victory sign and bent to pick up several bags. Ria followed him, and was almost out the door when she caught sight of her bedraggled maidenhair.

She scooped it up and propped it in one of the bags.

*    *    *

The snow lay thick and white, sparkling in deceptive rays from a cloudless sky. The air was still and free of drifts, promising later blizzards with icy fingers. It felt cleansing, though, as Ria emerged from the car with her family to sort jackets, hats, scarves and gloves they had brought with them up the mountain. There weren’t many people around, and this seemed to enhance the illicit adventure, particularly for Cady who had been providing a running commentary on what she would be doing at school now, if she was there, and wasn’t it sick to be missing assembly, maths test, double sport.

‘Sick means ace. Like cool, y’know – good,’ she explained with studied emphasis for ancient parents.

They had stopped to hire boots and toboggans at the base of the mountain, and for hot drinks, Cady babbling and bouncing between slurps of chocolate. She and Connor were now looking towards the slope where earlier arrivals were already whooshing and gliding. They set off through the crunching snow with intent faces, hampered in their haste by cumbersome boards and padded jackets. John followed in their wake, less intense, but equally ready to enjoy himself.

Living in the moment. Ria envied their focus, but would need a different trigger. She was not a snow-lover, accepting rather than sharing the enthusiast’s choice to get wet and cold. She was enjoying the spectacle, though, from her cocoon of clothing and blankets. The snowy expanse of transparent faces was soothing to her spirit.

The events of recent times blurred against the happy waves of her family as they trudged up the slope – again – to go down – again – hair flying and faces glowing.

They could be at this for hours.

Ria’s thoughts wandered.

*    *    *

What was behind all this trouble? Clash of worldviews, philosophies, politics? All of that, certainly, although Lena had denied any concerns with jovial comments about the idealist and the pragmatist who should be able to work together.

She didn’t like the partnership process, that much was clear, despite early protestations, becoming agitated when telling Ria about clients at another agency who seemed to think they could take over once they got a foot in the door. It had been a disaster, Lena had stressed several times, the cautionary note not quite masking the consternation.

Could anxiety about power-reversal, even though misplaced, explain why she had Ria quite so much in her sights? She seemed to think Ria was the ringleader of the whole thing, in which case getting rid of her might represent an efficient way of getting rid of it. If she really believed that, she would be on the back foot when clients made contact to meet about future structure and plans. If she didn’t believe it, there must be something else.

Simon thought there was. ‘Do you know what she’s done to other managers?’ Lena had challenged him one day. Puzzling over this, Ria had come up with nothing other than her support over the years for colleagues involved in dispute processes with management. Not exactly high treason, but perhaps sufficiently offensive to warrant pre-emptive action by someone of Lena’s propensities?

*    *    *

Ria poured herself some coffee, fingers clumsy with ski gloves and cold. Such rumination will get you nowhere, she warned herself, pulling her thoughts back to the here and now. It was well past lunchtime and she was suddenly very hungry, stomach grumbling like a piece of ancient plumbing. She waved to get John’s attention.

‘Time for lunch?’ he called.

‘Yeah,’ Ria yelled back.

‘Do you think we’ll be able to drag the others away?’ she asked, as John sank onto the bench. He would be stiff and sorry tomorrow.

‘I reckon the offer of hot food in front of an open fire will be pretty attractive at this stage. They’re starting to get wet, cold, and tired, I think.’

Connor and Cady were already heading towards them.

‘I’m exhausted.’

‘I’m starved.’

They flopped onto the bench on either side of Ria and leaned in against her.

‘You’re also wet. And I’m not. So, if you don’t mind …’

‘Aw, Mum, that’s not very nice. It’s not very nice, is it Cady, when your Mum tells you to piss off?’

‘No, it’s not very nice. Needs to be shown a lesson, I’d say.’

Ria felt something wet and cold slide under her scarf. She reached down, scooped a handful of snow and threw it as hard as she could at Cady’s retreating back. Then, it was on; rushing, ducking, weaving, throwing until John made a dash for the car. Boofy would have loved the chasing game, although not being hit with snowballs or having her legs disappear into the cold whiteness.

‘Well, I don’t know about you lot. But I’m going to find some food.’ John was already stripping off his wet outer layers.

They were on their way within five minutes.

By the time they had food spread in front of them, however, Ria was no longer hungry. She stared at pumpkin soup and damper, potato wedges, curried vegetables, and spicy sausages willing her head to stop swirling and her stomach to settle.

*    *    *

On the trip home, Ria leaned against a pillow, breathing cautiously through the pain in her stomach, resisting the impulse to tense against it with shallow breaths held too long.

John turned to her when they stopped at lights. ‘Just as well we’re almost home, you look like dirty snow. You’re taking all this really hard, aren’t you?’

Ria was startled by the question. She looked over at the young people, both asleep against their pillows, breathing evenly, mouths slightly open.

‘What do you mean, taking it hard?’ She asked back, working to keep the rise out of her voice. ‘How should I be taking it? With a smile? Like a dose of senna?’

‘No need to get testy. It’s just that since that letter arrived, you’ve taken a nose dive. Before that, you were stressed, but seemed to be doing okay. You’d made up your mind to resign, anyway, and that seemed like a reasonable decision.’

‘Yeah, but then it would’ve been painful, not necessarily bloody. It could’ve been a reasonably civilised business of acknowledging our differences and recognising her prerogative. It would’ve hurt – a lot; the partnership process represents everything I’ve worked towards for years, and I still would’ve felt gutted about jumping ship on clients and colleagues, but it could’ve been worked out without an ongoing battle. I don’t want a fight, but can’t you see I’ve got one whether I want it or not? I can’t just lie down under written allegations of unethical behaviour and threats of litigation and suspension. It’s just not right. I’m not the first to get this sort of treatment, and I won’t be the last if people slink away without at least trying to put a stop to her gallop.’

‘I suppose I do see all that,’ John conceded, sounding glum rather than grudging, and gripping her hand briefly. ‘I just wish it didn’t have to be you … but I guess it’s a bit late to wonder if I might’ve fetched up with a nice docile woman.’

‘Just a few decades.’

‘And I do somehow hope for a few more, even if you are sometimes a lot of trouble.’

‘Message received. I will do my best to look after myself in all this.’

Connor and Cady stirred when they pulled up at the house, coming alert when Boofy leaped into the car with delirious welcome after being released from her day’s abandonment. Everyone ferried wet stuff inside. No one was much interested in food, apart from the dog, who wolfed down the contents of the doggy bag, leaving the bits she didn’t like, licked clean and spread around her bowl.

Ria attended to basics, mindful she had more than enough time the next day to set things straight. And the next, and the next an unwelcome voice reminded her. She wrote a note for Cady to take to school explaining her day’s absence as family business, hugged the others goodnight and went gratefully to bed. Boofy curled up next to her, stretching luxuriously, and letting out a contented sigh.

Chapter 6

Family members later remembered that day at the snow as a day they laughed. Laughter became alien as the bang of the front door knocker invaded their lives.

‘Courier delivery. Could you sign for it please?’

‘Courier delivery. Could you sign for it please?’

‘Courier delivery …’

The letters came, sometimes more than once a day, sometimes several days apart. They kept coming, week after week. Lena was a very busy woman.

There were letters demanding Ria’s attendance at meetings “… on the 5 August at 11.00 am …”, “… on the 16 August at 9.00 am …”, “… at a time to be organised with my secretary …”, “… on the 26 August at 9.00 am …”, “… on the 7 September at 2.00 pm …”, “… with your chosen representative …”, “… on the 13 September at 9.00 am …”, “… within twenty four hours due to the seriousness of the matters …”.

Ria attended the first meeting, with her chosen representative, Warren. Asked about the purpose of the meeting and whether it was part of a disciplinary process, Lena looked towards Ruth, looked towards the ceiling, and then announced it was a “counselling session” for Ria – to advise her about the meaning of confidentiality.

Ria said she was clear about the meaning of confidentiality, both within her employment contract and within her professional ethical code. Neither encompassed administrative memos instructing the recipient to make certain things clear to people from whom the memo was then deemed confidential.

Lena said Ria was being difficult, as usual, and why didn’t she just grow up. Everyone agreed confidentiality extended to business meetings and memos.

Ria said they clearly knew different people, and what was at stake was whether Ria had breached her contract, rather than the agreement or otherwise of anonymous others with Lena’s unwritten position on meetings and memos. She also asked whether Lena’s acquaintances considered all meetings and memos confidential or only those run or written by Lena. Ria was interested, she said, because Annalisa had attended group supervision sessions facilitated by Ria, and then had apparently reported on them to Lena. Annalisa had also obviously reported to Lena on the meeting of the partnership process she attended, but Ria had expected that.

Lena said everyone knows managers report to their executive director. Ria had better watch her step or she might find herself on the wrong side of the defamation law.

Such was the tenor of the meeting.

Warren attended the second meeting and said it was a waste of time. Neither attended further meetings.

The letters continued.

They demanded the return of property, and the mailing list for the partnership process “… which you consider yourself guardian of … This information is confidential … Kindly return all hard copies and electronic versions …”

Ria had been meticulous when she cleared her office, and did not have any property belonging to The Portal. She had been through everything she had taken home. Their dining room was strewn with the contents of bags she had combed through piece by piece and page by page. She had become suspicious of “mistakes” after the confidential document addressed to Lena had been “accidentally” left in her pigeonhole.

Nor did she trust Lena’s motives, whatever they were, for wanting the mailing list. The details had been entrusted to Ria under particular circumstances, not to an organisation out for blood, and she was unsure what to do. She spoke to the ethical adviser at her professional association who suggested The Portal should nominate, in writing, a particular person, preferably also a psychologist, who would take ongoing responsibility for the confidentiality of the list and for protecting the integrity of its original purposes.

Ria duly wrote to Lena to this effect. Her letter was ignored. The demand for the return of the list was repeated – several times.

*    *    *

As the onslaught continued, Ria was feeling increasingly drained, sleeping badly, and losing weight. Her efforts to “heal thyself” were not meeting the challenge. Remembering her conversation with Clare, she decided it was time to take remedial action, and made an appointment with her general practitioner.

Mary, who had been the family doctor since Connor was a baby, listened carefully to a summary of the previous months, busied herself with blood pressure cuff, tutted over the results, wrote a script, took blood samples, ordered tests, and produced a certificate for sick leave, effective immediately.

‘That’ll put the cat among the pigeons,’ said Ria, explaining Lena’s indefinite suspension arrangement.

‘Too bad,’ retorted Mary. ‘I’ll see you again in a week or before that if you start to feel worse.’

Ria posted the sick leave certificate to The Portal, wondering what the reaction would be. She wasn’t left to wonder long. The courier arrived with a letter demanding contact with her general practitioner “… to provide information about the nature of your current illness, your prognosis, and likely date of your fitness to return to work …” This letter was accompanied by a PERMISSION TO RELEASE INFORMATION form.

‘They want to sack you,’ said Mary, when Ria was again sitting in her office with a blood pressure cuff on her arm. ‘My certificate provided information about the nature of your current illness. The rest they can work out for themselves. You’ll start getting better when they stop harassing you. How are things at home?’

*    *    *

Things at home rode on the tide of the letters. The atmosphere was chronically tense, sometimes leaden, sometimes turbulent. Cady drew cartoons of witches and broomsticks and UFOs and needed lots of cuddles.

‘I want my mummy back,’ she said, nestling into Ria’s shoulder early one morning after a restless night.

Connor appointed himself guardian of the door, when he was home, which was often at this rear end of his gap year between school and university. He also took to bringing cups of tea and enormous salad sandwiches on wholemeal bread at lunchtime. ‘It doesn’t matter if you can’t eat it all,’ he said each time. ‘You can take all afternoon if you need to.’

Ria chewed on bread and cheese, baby spinach and cucumber, olives and sundried tomato, layered and dressed with epicurean artistry. She would normally have enjoyed this food, and certainly appreciated Connor’s effort, but her swallow mechanism was in revolt, and what did go down sat like bloated dumplings in sluggish suspension. Her wiry frame was becoming gaunt.

Connor dug out the food processor and bought a book on yoghurt-based fruit and vegetable drinks, whizzing up mixtures that slid down more easily over the course of a day.

John became increasingly quiet, read the letters, made suggestions, tried to keep it all together. There were many bolognaise dinners.

This turbulence merged into chaos when poison darts found their mark – less often than Lena would no doubt have liked, but persistence can overcome poor perception. One such early jackpot was allusion to “clinical consequences” of Ria’s decision to disclose the memo to a client. Lena regretted, so her letter said, she could not specify the nature of those consequences because of Ria’s “intransigence” on the confidentiality of such matters.

Ria felt her sandwich surging upwards and sticking in her windpipe. She gagged and retched. It wouldn’t come up. It wasn’t going down. She stuck her fingers down her throat.

‘What on earth is she talking about?’ John bellowed when he later read the letter, letting off the steam of weeks.

‘I don’t know.’ Ria rubbed her stomach, now tight and tender. ‘She sure knows how to turn the screws. I thought some really serious “clinical consequence” – translate client disaster, such as suicide – had happened, but I spoke to Simon, and he couldn’t figure out what she’s on about, unless she classifies her alleged terror of Joel as a clinical consequence. Odd, if so, because that would place her as the “client” and I wouldn’t have thought she’d relish that.’

‘She’d have something to be terrified of if I knew where she lived.’ John stood, fists clenched, neck angled forward, lower lip protruding.

This uncharacteristic display of aggression had a steadying effect on Ria. ‘Heh,’ she said, putting her arms around him. ‘That’s no way to go. You know that. We’ve got to do better – somehow.’

‘Yeah? Any bright ideas?’ Still punchy, but the stiffness was seeping out of him.

‘No, but I’ll speak to Warren.’

*    *    *

Warren said he would get all subsequent letters directed to him. He would also, on Ria’s behalf, request a formal grievance hearing against Lena with the board.

His requests were ignored. The letters continued, by courier, regular mail and personal delivery to Ria’s home. Connor had taken to peering out the front windows occasionally and one day he saw someone depositing a letter. He rushed out the front door but the woman had scuttled into her car and driven away. The description sounded much like Annalisa.

Poison pen letters.

They demanded Ria’s attendance at meetings.

They directed her to return the mailing list.

They demanded contact with her general practitioner.

They indicated the “property” previously alluded to was intellectual property associated with the partnership process and that the organisation was taking legal advice on the matter.

They included a (confidential) five-page settlement and release agreement nominating a settlement of six weeks pay, and containing eleven legalistic clauses, several dealing with confidentiality, one precluding Ria’s disclosure of anything “… confidential to The Portal or treated by The Portal as confidential …” including its trade secrets! The document had already been signed by Lena, and witnessed by Ruth. The covering letter, signed by a lawyer from an upmarket corporate firm, stated the offer would remain open for five days after which it would be withdrawn.

Ria stormed around the house, brandishing the document, stopping to highlight bits and scrawl in the margins. Boofy hovered as close as she dared in the face of this weird and frightening behaviour.

Ria noticed the dog crouched at the end of the corridor. She dropped to her knees and murmured reassuring messages, soothing herself in the process. The effect of her behaviour on this loving creature was appalling. She pulled herself upright.

She rang a lawyer who was well known for her work on human rights and social justice. The woman agreed to see her, pro bono, after talking on the phone for a few minutes.

*    *    *

A week later, Ria hastened to the meeting, documents clutched to her chest.

The lawyer, someone Ria had long admired, heard the story, scanned the settlement and release agreement, and read the memo. Her laughter was disconcerting until she explained.

‘That’s what would happen if she took that memo, or any of her other allegations, into a law court, or any other formal setting for that matter including, I would confidently predict, your own professional registration board. And she surely knows it. As far as the settlement and release agreement goes, if you want to settle, get your Union to draft a one-page statement of redundancy, and negotiate it through her lawyers. Negotiate a reference at the same time. Be clear about what you’re prepared to sign and what you’re not. Don’t be intimidated by the standover tactics. What are they going to do? Sack you? Not likely! They wouldn’t have a leg to stand on in an unfair dismissals hearing.’

*    *    *

Warren’s efforts at a draft agreement were ignored.

Lena’s letters recycled like broken records – demands to attend meetings, return the mailing list, sign for release of information, sign the settlement and release agreement, beware the consequences of appropriating intellectual property.

Warren wrote to the board asking for a curb on harassment.

The chair wrote back saying “harassment” was a term to be used with care. The Portal was a Christian organisation with a Christian mission and was doing its utmost to resolve the situation.

*    *    *

Ria wrote to all the middle managers asking them to stand back and look at what was happening. They might, as Ruth had done, align themselves with Lena. They might, on the other hand, consider the possibility of Ria’s experience being extended to other members of staff, including themselves. It was a long shot, but Ria decided she had to give it a go.

‘In the terms’ she wrote, ‘of Lena’s unwritten, unstated definition of confidentiality that goes far beyond contractual agreements, anyone who discusses anything she says in meetings or memos is vulnerable to the same written and verbal allegations, and threats of termination of employment I have received even if, as in my case, such discussion is implicated in her directives. There are no limits or conditions on her demand for confidentiality (secrecy) unless she herself agrees to them. Please do not let her get away with this.’

She delivered the letters, early one morning, to individual pigeonholes, each letter sealed in its own envelope, each marked “Confidential”.

The response was immediate. Two courier-delivered letters arrived by lunchtime, each headed INAPPROPRIATE COMMUNICATION.

The managers had, apparently, taken the statement to Lena, who reasoned Ria had further breached confidentiality by writing it in the first place. Any further such breaches and Lena would, she wrote, have no option but to terminate Ria’s employment. Furthermore, Lena warned in the second letter, the most recent breach may become the subject of appropriate legal proceedings because of the “… harmful and grossly inaccurate comments about my conduct that I believe are defamatory in nature.”

Lena’s right to confidentiality was, apparently, unique, as well as absolute. Nothing directed to anyone else by anyone else was confidential, and anything so directed could provide fuel for further threats of termination, as well as legal proceedings for defamation. Furthermore, it seemed, Lena had carte blanche to discuss the situation between herself and Ria with whomever she chose, but if Ria discussed it with anyone she was breaching confidentiality.

*    *    *

In parallel with the time-consuming and draining matter of the letters, Ria was trying to contact the clients she had abruptly terminated, without notice or discussion, the day she cleared her office. She had again consulted the ethical adviser at her professional association who confirmed she did, indeed, have an obligation to inform clients she had left the agency, and to provide appropriate referrals.

The chain of events had not surprised many clients, although some were angry at the way they had subsequently been treated by the agency. They had not been notified of Ria’s departure, and had turned up for appointments only to be informed of it then.

‘Your case will be passed onto someone else,’ they had been told.

‘I’m not a “case” and I don’t want to be “passed on” to someone else,’ one man yelled at the hapless gofer in the middle of the busy reception area. ‘It’s taken me twenty years to find someone I can talk to. Where’s Ria? What have you done with her?’

Another client barged into a meeting Lena was officiating and demanded an explanation. She was threatened with police escort off the premises.

By and large, though, as Ria made contact with clients, she was reasonably satisfied most of them had taken things more or less in their stride and would move on without much drama. They had survived much worse throughout difficult lives.

She was therefore appalled to receive the next instalment of courier-delivered letters bearing such headlines as INCIDENT INVESTIGATION, EMPLOYMENT ISSUES, SICK LEAVE. The theme of these letters was the threat of additional dire consequences for the infamy of contacting clients while on sick leave. Ria was advised she “must not contact clients of The Portal or any party providing services to clients of The Portal.” If she did not comply with this direction she would be committing an act of serious misconduct and her employment would be instantly terminated as a result. She was directed to contact her manager and arrange a meeting to discuss the requirements of the organisation for confidentiality, to arrange for contact with her general practitioner, and for the return of the mailing list.

The settlement and release agreement reappeared on the tail of these letters.

Ria’s digestive system went into revolt. Her throat constricted around an expanding lump and her belly assumed the contours of dilapidated corrugated iron.

*    *    *

She gave herself a couple of days and then rang the chair of the board. It would almost certainly backfire, but she had to give it a go.

She was greeted by vigorous throat clearing and prolonged hmphing.

‘I am unable to have this conversation,’ the ponderous voice droned. ‘I must follow due process.’

‘And what is that in this case?’

‘I have been fully briefed by the executive director.’

‘No doubt – from her perspective. But I have a right to be heard. My previous attempts to exercise that right have been ignored, or answered with further threats. I am sending you a letter today, formally requesting a grievance hearing.’

Silence.

‘The grievance policy states a response will be made within seven days of submission of a request, so I will look forward to hearing from you over the next week.’

Silence.

‘I have also asked you to consider the composition of the executive committee that hears the grievance. Lena is officially a member of that committee, but her presence in this case would be inappropriate. The possibility of a grievance against the executive director appears to have been overlooked when the policy was written by the executive director. I have also requested the hearing take place somewhere other than The Portal.’

Silence.

‘In the meantime, if she sacks me, I will continue to fight.’

Silence.

Ria said goodbye and hung up. The phone rattled in its cradle. The lack of response was par for the course but she had still clutched at hope. She was appalled by the spinelessness of the “pillars of the community” who propped Lena up. She was appalled by her own pomposity.

The next day a courier-delivered letter arrived from Lena. It directed Ria to report the substance of her grievance to her immediate manager, Ruth, either in writing or by telephone.

The chair of the board also, it appeared, reported to Lena.

*    *    *

‘Talk to Ruth?’ Ria was on the phone to Warren. ‘Not likely. Whatever I said to her would go straight to Lena, who would then dictate the response, send a copy to the board, and stand back for applause.’

Ria could taste the despair as her voice speeded up. ‘Is there no way of getting outside this craziness?’ she asked, feeling the thud in her chest echo through the earpiece.

Warren was slow to answer. A plastic object, probably a pen, clicked against something, probably his teeth, as she chafed at her end of the line.

‘We could apply for a hearing at the Industrial Relations Commission.’ Warren spoke hesitantly, for him.

‘Whatever’s needed to open this up.’ Ria chose not to hear the hesitation. She didn’t want to know about obstacles. She just wanted to get beyond Lena’s tactics.

‘Or, you could go to the press.’ Warren was still tentative. ‘What about that journo – the one who upset Lena so much over the safe injecting issue?’

‘I have heard she rang and abused him – for his incompetence, unprofessionalism, and lack of ethics. Stunning originality! I don’t know if he’d want to speak to me, though. Anyway, what would it achieve except to add more stink to an already smelly business? If Lena’s managed to convince everyone who could do anything within the organisation that she’s doing a great job under difficult circumstances, another article in a local paper isn’t going to change anything. She’s already managed to construct any bad press as my responsibility or the product of poor journalism.’

‘Let me get clear what you’re trying to achieve, Ria. Do you want to go back to work? Do you want to settle? Do you want to stand on principle?’

Ria ignored the hint of irritation in his voice. He wanted clarity – fair enough, but his questions were important, and she was thinking them through as she answered.

‘I wouldn’t go back to work at The Portal,’ she said. ‘Not while Lena’s there. And I won’t settle, not if it means allowing her demands for secrecy to stand in the name of confidentiality. Nor do I want their hush money. All this hooha over a few thousand dollars. After the money she’s spent on lawyers and courier fees, not to mention her paid time to write all those letters.

‘No, I don’t want to go back to work at The Portal, and I don’t want to settle. What I do want is justice – call it standing on principle, if you like. I want someone to look at the memo and look at my contractual agreement and make a judgement. All the rest of the threats and allegations are just red herrings as far as I can see.

‘I almost wish Lena would put in a complaint against me with the registration board because then we’d have to argue our positions, but the lawyer I saw was no doubt right about that; Lena wouldn’t risk it. This whole thing is such a grass fire, and she’s the one with the hose, but she’s choosing to fan the flames.

‘Having said all that, if the Industrial Relations Commission offers the best possibility of cracking this recycling spiral, then that’s where I want to go. I could take her to court, except I can’t afford to and I don’t have that much faith in our “justice” system. She’s okay. She’s got the organisation and its money behind her. Although how that can be, I don’t know. There’s no slack in the tendering system to allow her to be propped up by expensive legal firms.’

Ria stopped. She had run out of steam, but knew she had to grab the opportunity to go to the Commission. There was nothing better on offer.

‘There might be questions to be asked about the use of public money,’ Warren said, picking up her last comment. ‘Perhaps the local Member of Parliament would be interested. Anyway, I’ll leave that for you to think about. What I can do is to put in an application for a hearing at the Commission.’

‘Go for it.’

*    *    *

While she was waiting for Warren to get organised, Ria took a step back. She hadn’t spoken to her sister for months, not since around both their birthdays, when Annette was on holidays and they had been able to have a long talk. Ria suddenly felt a strong urge to hear her sister’s voice. They were originally from a family of eight children, now spread across the country and overseas, and out of touch with each other. Ria had only ever been really close to Annette, and James of course, when they were kids, but that was another story and a long time ago.

Annette lived in Western Australia, about as far from Melbourne as you can get and still be in the same country. They didn’t see each other often, and didn’t even speak on the phone often, but when they did it was like picking up the conversation after a brief interruption. Ria figured the time difference, and decided it was worth trying a call.

‘Annie!’ She yelped when the phone was picked up almost immediately.

‘Ri! It’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve been meaning to ring you for days. I’ve been worrying about you.’

‘Really? Must be that sisterly intuition again.’

‘I don’t know about intuition, but I didn’t much like the sound of that workplace of yours the last time we spoke, and I keep wondering what’s going on, so I’m really glad you’ve called. You can fill me in.’

Their conversations tended to be either general catch-up or the serious sisterly variety when one or other of them was in some sort of trouble. So, without further preamble, Ria launched into a reasonably consecutive account, although the “she said” and “I said” and “he said” were probably a little difficult to follow. Annette didn’t say much, but Ria knew she was listening intently, and felt wrapped around by her sister’s warmth. She started to crack up when she talked about how much it cut to be accused of being unethical.

‘Heh, Ri, I wish I could be there with you.’

This softly spoken, heartfelt comment was all it took. Ria burst into noisy sobs.

Annette sat it out. ‘You know,’ she said, when the torrent reduced to sniffles, ‘she sounds a lot like Mum, only Mum would’ve said you were sinful – evil and sinful – instead of unethical.’

Ria took her time absorbing this comment. ‘There might be a lot in that, big sis. How come you grew up so smart for that kid who was supposed to be so stupid?’

‘Well, Ri, we’re big girls now and, guess what, the world doesn’t stop turning if we say out loud Mum was wrong!’

‘How dare you be so insolent! You’ll burn in hell, you know.’

‘I’ll look forward to catching up with you there then, half-pint. In the meantime, Ri, please do keep in touch, even if it’s only by email, otherwise I’ll be wondering and worrying.’

‘I will, Annie, and thanks. It’s so good to be able to talk to you. It makes so much difference.’

‘No worries, the boot will no doubt be on the other foot before too long.’

*    *    *

She did feel stronger after talking to Annette. They could understand each other, without lengthy explanations, and that had been important for both of them over the years. She was still struggling, though, wearing a track to Mary’s office, feeling as if her body was going into shut-down, and shuffling through endless tests to pinpoint some explanation for her weight loss. At some level she knew, and Mary did too, the problem was not physical. Her head was clear most of the time, no headaches surprisingly, but the drama was being played out through other parts of her body.

She talked to Mary about the naturopath across the road from the surgery, vaguely imagining some sort of old-fashioned tonic that would miraculously bootstrap her back to health.

‘Jeb, you mean,’ said Mary. ‘I’ve worked with him from time to time. He seems sound. Why don’t you see what he has to offer?’

*    *    *

Jeb had a kindly, lived-in face. He leaned slightly towards her. ‘You’re right about your head,’ he said. ‘It’s your spirit that’s damaged. Your body’s speaking for it.’

‘What?’

‘Your spirit. You know, that dimension that goes beyond mind and body. I don’t know exactly what’s happened to you, but I would stake my own soul that someone has done serious damage recently, and I would also hazard a guess that whatever it is has opened old wounds. Very old wounds.’

Ria couldn’t make sense of what was happening, but something deep in her gut was twisting, flexing and threatening to ooze. She wanted to yield to that feeling. She wanted to flee. Somewhere. Anywhere. Her legs weren’t going anywhere, though, and she could feel the pressure that had lodged and shifted around her body moving behind her eyes.

‘It’s okay to cry, you know,’ said a quiet voice. ‘You’re a strong woman, Ria. It won’t undo you.’

Ria leaned forward with her head in her hands and shuddered from deep in her belly. ‘No,’ she said through her covered face. ‘I won’t cry here.’

She looked up and smiled, or tried to, but then abandoned the attempt. This man didn’t need protection from her feelings. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been so blind. I’ve ignored so much. I’ve ignored my own soul. I wouldn’t call it that, or I wouldn’t have. But it makes no difference. It’s got a past as well as a present, and I’ve ignored them both.’

Two people sat in silence for some minutes, one speaking through the eyes of universal pain, the other in the language of its compassion.

‘How do I fix my soul?’ Ria whispered into the silence, unsure who she was asking.

‘You’ll work it out.’ Jeb spoke with gentle inflection. ‘But it’s too soon for that. You’ve got to acknowledge the pain. Stop holding it in. Go out into the forest and hug some trees and scream if you want to. But stop holding it in. That’s what your body’s telling you. And stop trying to work it all out in your head. It’s a very fine head, but your soul needs more than reason as a balm. Listen to your soul. The damage is on the surface. The heart of your soul is clean and clear.’

*    *    *

Ria later had little recollection of leaving Jeb’s office. She wandered around the local shopping centre in a daze, eventually hailing a tram that would take her to the Botanical Gardens. She wasn’t going to hug trees, but getting closer to nature seemed urgent.

She sat on a rise overlooking the lake where she could see the water birds with their fluffy offspring. Weeping willows dipped and swayed in the gentle breeze. Banks of trees faded into the distance. The world went about its business.

Lying back against sweet new grass, the sun moved shadows across her eyelids as she drifted on the edges of consciousness. Jumbled thoughts and nameless feelings ceased their clamour and formed their patterns. Two dark shapes floated towards each other, pulled apart, merged and separated again. One pointed and laughed. The other disappeared.

Suddenly she was upright and wide awake, tipping out her bag to find pencil and paper, scribbling across the page.

She fucked my soul, already fucked over. That space is now dark, empty, cold, dead. The soul-fucking shattered my heart. Now there are painful shards instead. My head still works sometimes, my body hardly at all. What is a body without a soul? What keeps it going in its dis-spirited way? Kids and a partner who would be horribly hurt. What use to them – a body without a soul?

When I was younger I sloughed my past – punitive, brutal, abusive, rejecting. Made my own soul. Humanism and feminism mostly, some socialism and Marxism too. Belief in evil displaced for good. The heart of my soul would stand for justice.

I failed my vision. My vision failed me. Too old, too tired, too hurt to start over. A painful journey and then, what next? Where do I find another soul?

She dropped the pen as if it was hot and crumpled the paper into her bag. Weariness wrapped around her like a damp lamb-swool coat. Her head sank towards her chest and her legs curled under her.

Annie was right. Jeb was right. Past and present. Old wounds.

She jerked herself upright. They might be right, but only up to a point. Old wounds can heal, and can stay healed most of the time. She knew that from her own life as well as from the lives of many clients over many years. But old wounds also leave scars that can become stretched beyond resilience under peculiar conditions that both mirror and camouflage their roots. She believed it was possible to survive such experiences, indeed to use them to learn and grow. Or she had believed that. And therein lay the heart of her current despair, that loss of sustaining faith in the survival power of the human spirit. That was why she felt so feeble, and why she was currently unfit for the work she normally loved.

What do you do under such circumstances?

She remembered a woman she had once heard interviewed, whose whole family, husband and three children, had been killed in a massacre some years previously. The interviewer asked the woman how you keep going after such a tragedy. The woman said she didn’t know, but had gone through the motions of living until eventually life took on its own momentum again. She had gone on to start a campaign to raise money for families in similar circumstances.

At that moment, the motions of Ria’s life required her to return home to her own family, blessedly very much alive, and needing to be fed. She wouldn’t ignore the messages of the day, but dealing with them would have to wait.

Chapter 7

Warren was able to tell her the hearing was set for Friday the following week. The process, he explained, was each side would have about ten minutes to present its case; the commissioner would ask questions and make recommendations.

Ten minutes. Not long. Ria set to work drafting, getting feedback, redrafting. A painful process, but eventually her reviewers approved the document, and she delivered a copy to Warren two days before the hearing.

She was kept in contact with happenings at The Portal through colleagues bringing flowers, cards, and notes from other staff. A growing band barracked from the sidelines as people within and beyond The Portal heard of what was happening. “We need you to be strong for all of us,” was the general gist. I wish, thought Ria, but nonetheless felt heartened by the sentiment. Her personal network provided unflagging support, kept her eye on the ball, and handed back bits of her Self that buckled under the barrage.

Simon brought word that Lena’s interpretation of the hearing was that Ria wanted to return to work, or else wanted more money in the settlement.

Ria laughed. ‘She’s really got no idea, has she? I don’t want their money, and you know how I feel about working at The Portal.’

‘It’s just another way of discrediting you,’ said Simon sadly. ‘I thought you should know, though, because it’s probably the line she’ll take when she gets there.’

Simon offered to go with Ria to the hearing. It was a genuine offer, Ria knew, but one she couldn’t accept. ‘I’ll never forget you made that offer, Simon, and I’ll always be grateful. But I’ve decided to go on my own, apart from Warren. I think I might handle it better if I don’t have to worry about someone worrying about me.’

‘Should I be there to wait for you when you come out, then?’ he asked, not giving up easily.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Ria, warmed by his generosity but not wanting the responsibility. ‘I’ve got no idea how long it’ll take. And I don’t like the idea of you hanging around outside wondering what’s going on.’

‘I’ll be wondering, anyway, wherever I am. You know it’s my day off. I could be anywhere you want at any time.’

‘What if I come to your place after the hearing, then? I’m bound to need to talk.’

‘Done.’

*    *    *

Cady was a worry in the days leading up to the hearing. Generally easygoing, she had little previous experience of the chilly space created by parental self-absorption. Her reaction was to cling, and wherever Ria went, Cady was likely to follow. One morning, Ria was folding washing when Cady rushed past the laundry.

‘Mummy! Mum! Muuummm!’ She was crying and hiccoughing and dishevelled from sleep.

Ria was immediately behind her and turned her around, hugging her tight. ‘I’m here, sweetheart. Come and sit down.’

They plopped into the nearest chair and Ria cuddled Cady in her lap, soothing and murmuring until Cady was calmer in her arms. ‘What is it, my darling?’

‘Had a horrible dream.’ Cady nestled closer, her face pressed into Ria’s shoulder. ‘So frightened.’ The muffled sounds sent tingles into Ria’s neck. ‘I dreamt a yeerck got into your head. And I was trying to get it out. And I couldn’t.’ The last came out on a wail, and Cady’s arms tightened around her mother.

Ria soothed and murmured and gave herself time to think. Cady’s fears were well founded, even if they had taken on a peculiar form, arising out of her current reading. ‘You’re right,’ she said eventually, ‘something did get into my head, but it’s my job, with the help of other adults, to get it out. And we’re working on it. That’s why I’m going to that place tomorrow.’

She needed to buy some time. ‘It might take a while for everything to get sorted, so I wonder what we can do in the meantime. How about those dream essences you got for your birthday? The ones you wipe onto your pillow to have special dreams – joyful, calm, exciting or whatever. What if you started using them? Maybe I could use them too, and then we might both have better dreams.’

‘Of course, Mummy.’ Cady was sitting up straighter and smiling tentatively at her mother. ‘I know what else I can do. I can put my Mexican worry dolls under my pillow and give them my worries to sort out while I’m asleep. You could share them, too,’ she said, looking touchingly eager.

‘Thank you, my darling. They only have one bag, though, so I’ll put mine in a small purse. Anyway, how about some breakfast. It’s time to get ready for school.’

‘Nuttella toast. Lots of Nuttella. Thanks, Mum.’

Cady set off for the shower, and a raucous blare was soon coming from the radio in the bathroom.

*    *    *

On the morning of the hearing, Ria was wide-awake by three, and knew she would get no more sleep. She made herself coffee, grabbed a rug and went into the sitting room. She didn’t want to disturb the rest of the household, but wasn’t surprised when Boofy staggered in and flopped at her feet. She was grateful for the dog’s undemanding company and talked quietly to her about the day ahead.

‘I’m dreading it, you know, Boofy. Partly fear of the unknown, but partly also fear of being in Lena’s company again. That’s pretty silly, I guess. She can’t do anything to me there. I wonder how you would behave if it was you, and she was another dog? I feel like ripping her throat out, but I can’t see you behaving like that. You’re such a timid, gentle creature you’d probably roll over and stick your legs in the air. Well, I’m not rolling over. Not yet, anyway.’

The eye Ria could see flickered and the tail thumped once, then again, but otherwise the dog didn’t move. ‘My big challenge, Boofy, is going to be to stay calm. I think I need a long bath with some lavender oil. Sorry to disturb you again. There’s not even anywhere nice for you to lie in the bathroom. You should go back to your own bed.’

Boofy made licking motions that didn’t quite connect with the hand smoothing her black, furry face.

*    *    *

By seven-thirty, Ria was in the city. She was half an hour early for her pre-hearing meeting with Warren, but preferred that to the possibility of being late. She decided to walk the rest of the way rather than taking another tram. As she walked, she wondered about the day ahead for the people she passed, already moving purposefully through the city in surprising numbers. Did any of them have an ordeal ahead like hers? Most of them had the anonymous, shutdown look perfected by people in big cities. Ria pretty much blended in, wearing as she was a severe black suit, the like of which she had not previously owned.

‘If you want to be taken seriously by lawyers and other Establishment, you need to dress,’ her doctor had advised.

‘I am dressed,’ Ria had replied, looking down at her purple tie-dyed skirt, black leggings and scuffed workboots.

‘You need to dress appropriately. In a suit.’

‘Well, if that’s what it takes, I have to wonder at the value of being taken seriously.’

Nonetheless, here she was; with covered buttons, for heaven’s sake. Her children had said she looked “cool” as they waved her off this morning, having got themselves out of bed especially early to do so.

‘And you’ve got your bag,’ Connor had noted, knowing (because he had helped put them there) of the array of political badges pinned to the lining. Reminders of past and ongoing campaigns for the rights of women, indigenous Australians, refugees, workers, drug users, they might help to ground her despite the alien clothes and the alien environment she was about to enter.

Her bag was a comfort as she stood in the street looking up at the building that housed the Australian Industrial Relations Commission – Nauru House. Her father had worked in Nauru during the war. She veered away from such thoughts. She focused instead on the steps, the many steps, and her feet moving upwards – each step churning her stomach and stirring the impulse to flee. She breathed deeply and studied the pigeon droppings instead of her feet.

Stopping at a pillar, she scrabbled in her bag for her Walkman, switching it on and plugging in the earphones: “… You don’t speak for me. You don’t speak for my friends. We’ve followed that line. We’ve seen where it ends. Intolerance, hatred, division and strife. You don’t speak for me …”

‘Spot on, Judy Small. Thank you.’

She was still humming when she entered the foyer, much like the lobby of a five-star hotel, and checked the noticeboard for the location of her hearing. Keeping an eye out for Warren, she sat and watched the stirring of the working day. So much earnestness, so many suits, mostly grey, briefcases on the right, newspapers tucked on the left. Steady stream of endless importance moving towards the lifts. Individually, and collectively, they reminded her of the cover picture of One Dimensional Man.

At last Warren appeared. He too was in a grey suit, distinguished by rumples at knees and elbows, and the absence of knifepoint edges. Union Man, as distinct from Organisational Man. He greeted Ria gruffly, asked her if she had any change, and dashed off to feed a parking meter. No big deal to him, Ria was aware, just another day’s work.

They rode together up to the twenty-first floor and made their way through a hushed maze to the appointed hearing room. Ria shifted into neutral, head engaged, emotions detached.

*    *    *

Lena and her attendants were already seated, closed folders neatly arranged. Staring straight ahead, Lena was flanked by Ruth and another sharp-featured woman with severe black everything – hair, glasses, suit, shoes and briefcase – the lawyer, obviously.

The commissioner, another grey man, took his position at the elevated podium twenty minutes late, by which time Ria’s detached calm was wearing thin. His opening comment was to the effect that time was short. He was already overdue for his next appointment.

Ria’s head thumped. Her teeth clenched. The process galloped away from her. There was no chance to present her carefully prepared brief. It was handed up to the commissioner, along with a document prepared by Lena’s lawyer. He glanced through both, asked a couple of questions, and then advised the lawyer and Warren to proceed to develop a settlement acceptable to both parties.

‘But I don’t want to settle,’ Ria blurted.

‘Well, what are you doing here then?’ The commissioner’s glance in her direction was testy. ‘If you don’t want to settle, this process is a waste of time.’

‘I thought I was here to address the dispute – the status of that memo in relation to my contractual agreement.’

‘Well,’ said the commissioner, looking around the room, ‘I can’t resolve that here. You’d need to go to court, and that’s not a course I’d advise. You could be at it for years. The only thing I can suggest is the inclusion of a clause in the settlement stating the dispute does not reflect on the professional character of any person.’

Ria could not believe what she was hearing. ‘But how would that help me, given any settlement would be confidential?’

The commissioner was frowning, his mouth pursed. ‘I suggest you go and talk this out in the meeting room next door. I must get to my next case. If you fail to arrive at some agreement, you can return here at a later date.’

Warren and the lawyer rose and started to collect papers. Ria had no option but to follow them into the meeting room. Lena and Ruth headed in the opposite direction; time for coffee, Ria supposed.

The lawyer looked smug as she stated the settlement she had previously prepared, and which Ria had refused to sign, was non-negotiable from her client’s point of view. She suggested Ria should stop being difficult and sign. She further suggested Ria was being precious about the mailing list.

Warren started talking about whether the few thousand dollars in the settlement was before or after tax.

‘Warren,’ Ria pleaded, ‘you know I don’t care about the money. And I won’t settle while those gotcha clauses about confidentiality remain in the agreement. In fact, I won’t settle unless I also get a retraction of the allegations about unethical behaviour. And after this morning, the chances of that happening outside a courtroom are zero and none. I thought this place was supposed to protect the rights of workers. It just seems like another establishment to uphold the establishment to me.’

‘Okay, Ria,’ Warren said, wearily, and then looked towards the lawyer. ‘I’ll get back to you when we’ve considered our position.’

‘You’ll need to be quick,’ she said, with a dazzling white smile. ‘Our offer will be withdrawn in three days.’

Ria imagined what it would be like to land a punch on those perfect teeth. She held her hands tight to her sides. ‘Do you realise what you’re colluding with here?’ She glared at the lawyer whose eyes glanced off to the side of Ria’s head. ‘Are you proud to be paid to fuck people over at the whim of megalomaniac managers whose only god is their own power? Where did you go to school to learn that sort of law? Or, is that what passes for justice in our lucky country?’

‘Ria. That’s enough.’ Warren’s voice was like a pistol-shot.

Ria crumpled back in her chair. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her face feeling wooden. ‘That was personal and wrong.’ She felt extremely tired. ‘I guess you’re doing what you see as your job.’

*    *    *

She followed Warren out to the lift and out of the building. He was too busy to go for coffee. She stood at the top of the steps, her hopes for justice a bitter aftertaste.

She didn’t know what to do with herself. She was going to Simon’s, just a tram ride away, but the effort involved seemed huge. She tried to hail a taxi, but it kept going. She stopped for coffee.

With the coffee in front of her, Ria knew she had done the wrong thing. She felt dizzy and sick, and should have accepted Simon’s offer to meet her. She sat for a while, head in hands, and then decided to get going before she was moved on. This was, after all, the top end of town, and café proprietors did not want patrons falling into their coffee no matter how appropriate their suits. Her own suit was less meticulous than it had been, jacket undone and pulled untidily away from her neck. She pulled it closed again, got to her feet and made her way towards the tram on treacherously uncooperative legs.

The tram was crowded. Ria had to wait several stops before she got a seat. She sweated and shivered. Her heart thumped, her ears burned, her chest cavity was way too tight. She could not get enough air. Her head was going to blow open. Cars and horns and people roared and blared and boomed. The man next to her asked if she was okay. She said no. He got off at the next stop. She put her head between her knees.

Now she knew what people meant when they said it felt like you were dying. She didn’t die, though. That’s what people also said. She didn’t even collapse, but managed somehow to weave her way to Simon’s. His flat was up two flights. It took a long time. She fell through the door. He held her upright.

He led her to a chair and propped up her feet. ‘You’re safe now,’ he murmured. ‘You’ll be okay, just keep breathing.’ A mug of sweet tea was soon clutched in her hands.

‘Thanks, Simon,’ she managed after an indefinite time, and gave him a rundown on the mornings proceedings. ‘Lena just sat there, saying nothing. She got off scot-free, not even a rap over the knuckles. Whereas me – I was constructed as a difficult woman. Difficult for wasting the commissioner’s time, difficult for not signing the settlement and being grateful for their dirty money, and difficult for my stand over the mailing list.’

‘Ria,’ said Simon, holding both her hands, looking directly at her, and speaking softly, ‘you are a difficult woman. That’s what we love you for. The world needs difficult women, difficult people, for all sorts of reasons, including the ones you stick your head up about. I know I’m not the first to say this sort of thing, but it’s true. Would you want to be different?’

Ria pulled her hands back and searched Simon’s face, trying to work out how to interpret his backhanded message. What she saw was honesty, respect, a slight quirk to his mouth and a hint of challenge in his eyes.

‘You’re right,’ she said, with an attempt at a smile. ‘I don’t need to take offence. I’ve made my choices, and have to deal with the consequences. It still hurts, though. Personally and politically. The system stinks.’

‘Well, we knew that. What did you expect?’

‘I know. I know. But if I stop believing in justice, there doesn’t seem much left; only the effects of injustice. And that’s what we’re dealing with every day in our work with survivors of abuse and violence and poverty and unemployment and homelessness. And you know how hard that is. If we can’t stop the injustice, and we can’t stop the effects, and the effects take on a life of their own, what’s the point?’

They sat in silence. There was certainly no point in further words.

*    *    *

That night Ria sat up after the rest of her household had settled, staring into space and twisting the fringe on the picnic blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders. They were now well into spring, and the days were sometimes soothingly warm, but the nights were still cold.

By the early hours her feet were numb and her fingers stiff. She dragged herself to bed. She would sit up there, get warm. Couldn’t turn the light on at three o’clock in the morning, She’d be better off without it, anyway, rest her burning eyes. Wouldn’t go to sleep. Wouldn’t … Didn’t want to dream …

Her lids drooped.

‘No! No! Noooooooo!’

She heard the tail end of her own scream as she forced her eyes open.

Something was moving beside her. What? Who? She clutched the bedclothes.

‘John! John!’ She grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling his arms around her. ‘Hold me. Hold me,’ she pleaded. ‘You’ve got to bring me back.’

‘Back from where?’ John wondered into her hair, wrapping himself around her sweating, shaking body.

PART TWO

1959 – 1960

Actually, nobody wants to swim with sharks. It is not an acknowledged sport and it is neither enjoyable nor exhilarating.

Voltaire Cousteau

How to Swim with Sharks

Chapter 8

‘Out of there. All of you.’ The dark wooden door bounced against the wall and its stippled panel rattled. Flakes of yellowing calcimine floated to the floor in a cloud of acrid dust.

Ria pulled her sheet up over her ears and hugged it to her cheek. The calico scratched her face but she didn’t care. The blanket was scratchy too. She didn’t bother pulling it up. It was khaki with greenish flecks and made Ria feel sick just to look at sometimes. When it was really cold, though, she had to use it. She squeezed her eyes, hoping to block out the sights and sounds of morning.

It was always the same. Her mother thumped from room to room and bed to bed, pulling off blankets, poking and shaking. Sometimes Ria tried to wake herself up before it happened, but this morning she didn’t want to. Didn’t want to go to Mass either.

‘It’s boring,’ she mumbled into the lumps of her kapok pillow, making sure the words were muffled.

‘Get out, I said.’ The voice slurred, but that was not unusual. At this time of morning, her mother had not yet put in her teeth. Sometimes her lips seemed to disappear altogether, sucked backwards into the emptiness. Ria opened her eyes as the sheet was yanked away from her, and pinched her nose against the wave of morning breath. ‘Get yourself into your clothes and out into the front hall. The mass is being said for James, and we’re all walking up the hill together.’

‘What?’ Ria looked around the room as her mother surged out the door, and then at the two of her sisters who shared her room and were already scrambling into their clothes. Ria wanted someone to hold her, she didn’t know why. She looked more closely at Annette. ‘Why are you crying, Annie?’ she asked, starting to feel really frightened.

Annette sat on the edge of Ria’s bed and held out her hands. Ria clasped one of them, using her other hand to wipe Annette’s face with the top of her sheet. Annette had a round face and a soft body that was good for cuddles.

‘Don’t cry, Annie,’ she whispered. ‘I hate it when you’re sad.’

Annette was thirteen, three years older than Ria, and normally the one who wiped Ria’s tears when she was hurt or unhappy or had nightmares. Veronica, her other sister in the room, was kind too, but she didn’t notice things as much as Annette did. Veronica sometimes had a dreamy look and mightn’t hear you if you spoke to her. She was between Annette and Ria in age, and looked like Annette, only thinner. She was jumpier, though, and sometimes twisted her hands around and around in her lap. She gnawed at the skin around her fingernails, too, and sometimes made her fingers really sore.

They both had the same straight brown hair and straggly fringes they had to pin back with hairclips to go to school. You had to put threepence into the Mission Box if you had hair flopping onto your face. Ria didn’t look like them at all. She had white curls that went everywhere and never stayed pinned back. She had to use a hair band to keep them off her face and out of her eyes. She had blue eyes and a dimple when she smiled. Their neighbour, Mr O’Connor, said she wasn’t bad for the “scrairpins o’ the pot”.

‘Listen, Ri, you were asleep last night and we didn’t want to wake you.’ Annette looked at Veronica, who was now huddled on the edge of Ria’s bed, hands worrying each other. Veronica nodded, and stared at the floor. Ria looked at the floor as well, in case there was something there. There wasn’t anything to see, just the cracked brown lino and balls of fluff that skittered around the legs of the bed when Veronica shuffled her feet. Ria looked up again.

Annette took a big breath that sent shudders down to her stomach. They rippled through her shirt. ‘You know how James went to the football in the country with his friends yesterday,’ she said, in a cracked voice. ‘Well, when they were coming home it was dark and raining with hailstones and their car slid on the road. There was a truck coming the other way and it hit their car.’

Ria twisted the damp sheet. She wanted Annette to tell her everything was all right, but Annette was rocking and hugging herself as if she had a bad pain. Ria could feel prickles on her own arms and neck and down her back. She was suddenly very cold. ‘So …’ she said, the word stretching out. ‘Where’s James? Can I see him?’

‘No, Ri.’ Annette pulled Ria into her arms. ‘James is not here. He won’t be here any more. He was hurt very badly. The truck squashed him.’

Ria pulled back so she could see Annette’s face. She didn’t like what she saw and she didn’t want to hear any more. She pushed herself up onto her knees and twisted around so she was looking out the window. Everything was the same as yesterday. Just their wobbly side fence and the peeling brown paint on the house next door. That was the O’Connors’ house. They were always saying they were going to paint it green but never did. She jumped out of bed and started pulling on her clothes. She would go out into the hall where her mother had told her to go. James would be there. He would.

Annette was wrong.

She must be.

This one time.

*    *    *

The hall was full of her family, but it was awfully quiet. Ria had three brothers and four sisters. They were all there – except James. Nobody said anything; Ria didn’t say anything either. Everyone was looking at the floor or at their hands or anywhere except at each other. She moved up close to Annette. Annette reached down and held Ria’s hand in both of her own. Their father moved his head from side to side. His eyes moved with his head but they didn’t seem to see very much. He looked as if his face had fallen down. Ria could see red at the bottom of his eyes and his cheeks had dropped down the sides of his face. He turned very slowly and opened the front door. Ria’s mother walked past him onto the verandah, clumping across the loose wooden slats. Her back was stiff, and grey hair poked out in bunches under her black felt hat. She did not look at Ria’s father.

Once they were out on the street, Ria had to run to keep up. Her mother stalked up the hill, head pushed forward against the wind, not even turning when she crossed the road. When they got to the church, she marched right up the front. The family straggled behind her, taking up two pews. There weren’t many other people. There never were, apart from the nuns. They took up three pews, on the other side of the aisle. They looked a bit like penguins, and some of them walked like penguins too. They were fat or thin, tall or short, but otherwise the same. Their faces were puckered under the stiff white veils that were covered with black material the same as their long robes. Some of them had whiskers sticking out from the creases. They wore big gold crucifixes around their necks and enormous brown rosary beads dangled from leather straps around their waists.

*    *    *

Ria sometimes tried to imagine the ones who taught her at school going to the toilet or eating something or in their nightclothes. Did they do all those things other people did? Did Sister Mary Assumpta, her sixth grade teacher? It was hard to imagine her even sitting down. She moved like she had a poker right up her back that made it hard to turn or bend. Unless someone spoke in class, then she moved pretty quickly, waving her strap and sometimes hitting out at just anyone.

‘Is there someone talkin’ behind my back?’ she would bark as she span around swinging the strap. Once she knocked off Mary Gilhooley’s glasses. The wire frame sprang open and one of the lenses dropped into the sawdust on the floor. Mary Gilhooley had to go home.

One of Ria’s aunties was a nun. She was her father’s sister, and was called Sister Helen, but was Auntie Maureen to Ria. When she came to visit – not very often – she always came with another nun, and they went into the front room on their own if they had a cup of tea. They never went to the toilet at Ria’s place, but perhaps they didn’t like the toilet paper. Well, Ria’s family didn’t have toilet paper. They had newspaper torn up into pieces and poked onto a hook that hung out of the wall. It was one of Ria’s jobs to tear up the newspapers. Her father read The Sun on the tram going to work every day and then stacked the old papers in a box in the laundry for Ria to tear up. They didn’t tear up the Catholic newspapers. Ria had to take them to the fish and chip shop so someone might get their fish and chips wrapped in them and be converted.

She kept the comics pages from The Sun and made them into books she stuck together with clag and covered with cardboard from Cornflakes packets. Her favourite comic was Bluey and Curly, and she read her books of comics over and over. She kept the best ones in her secret place down the side of the house.

She thought people who had toilet paper in their toilet must be rich. Margaret had toilet paper, and her family had ten children. Margaret had pocket money too. She bought lollies with it and always shared. Ria loved Margaret and her Mum.

*    *    *

The priest was standing at the pulpit. That didn’t usually happen on a weekday. There was no sermon on a weekday, and that happened in the middle of mass anyway. It was Father Carroll today. Ria didn’t like Father Carroll. He never smiled or squatted down on his haunches to talk to kids like Father O’Brien sometimes did. He stood up at the pulpit now, rocking back and forth on his heels and looking over everyone’s heads towards the back of the Church.

‘This mass is being said for the repose of the soul of James Flanagan,’ he said in his singsong voice that came out his long, narrow nose. ‘The funeral service will be held in this Church at two o’clock on Wednesday.’ He turned and walked towards the altar, crooking his finger at the altar boys to go to their places for serving mass.

Just like any other day.

Ria stared at the stiff figure standing at the altar and screwed her face tight. How could he be like that? As if he was saying something ordinary, like there’d be a meeting of the fete committee or something. She wanted to shake him. He didn’t care. She didn’t want to be here just like any other day. She looked around at her family and wanted to shake them too. Why did everyone look so ordinary? Well, not ordinary, exactly, but not as if they felt like Ria did. Did Ria look ordinary to them too? Even Annette was kneeling with a dumb look on her face as if she was just bored. Her mother held rosary beads up to her face and worked her mouth as she moved the beads through her fingers. Her eyes were screwed tight behind her thick rimless glasses. The long lines from the corners of her mouth seemed to pull it down towards her chin. Her father slumped against the pew in front of him and covered his face with his hands. His brown jumper was inside out and the ragged sleeves showed his bony wrists. The back rode up so you could see the top of his underpants. Normally her mother would have hissed at him to kneel up straight and set a proper example.

She didn’t today.

*    *    *

Ria closed her eyes and thought about James. It was his birthday last week. He was fifteen. He didn’t have a party. Their family didn’t. They said the rosary for the birthday person instead. Sometimes, Annette and Veronica would help Ria make a card. They didn’t finish the one for James. Their mother said they were taking too long and had to clean up their mess and do something useful. Annette had to bring in the washing, Veronica had to scrub potatoes, and Ria had to pod peas.

The card for James was probably still under one of their beds. Veronica did the best drawings. She had drawn James playing football. He was running towards the open goal with the ball in his hands. Annette was going to do the scoreboard and it was going to show they needed a goal to win. Ria was going to do the writing.

Too late, now. She buried her face in her hands.

Sometimes Annette and Veronica and Ria watched their brothers play football. They played for the Catholic Young Men’s Society, the CYMS, or CY, for short, the boys called it. Their team was called Two Blues because their jumper was light blue with dark blue in a v-shape at the front and a square at the back. Ria liked to watch the spectators as much as the game, but still yelled out ‘c’arn the blues’, and ‘chewey on ya boot’, and ‘go, Dodger’ when everyone else did.

Dodger was James’ nickname. He played in the forward flank and could run really fast, dodging around the pack and between the other team’s players to get to the goal. He was always so happy when he kicked a goal. Even his eyes looked happy when he saw the two white flags waving and his team mates rushing up to punch him in the arm or thump his back. ‘Go, Dodger’ they yelled. ‘Go, Blues,’ he yelled back, sprinting to his position on legs that seemed to fly.

At the end of each season some of the parents made a break-up party for the players. They would bring sausage rolls and saveloys, wrapped up in greaseproof paper and towels, sometimes newspaper as well, to keep the food warm, as well as sandwiches, chocolate crackles, and cordial, and spread everything out on blankets on the ground, just like a real picnic. The players’ sisters and brothers were allowed to come too, although James always told the girls not to gobble up too much food before the players had a chance. He made sure they got something, though.

Once Tiny’s dad brought icy poles in his wheelbarrow. They didn’t melt because he had big ice blocks, like from an ice chest, under the icy poles, and a tarpaulin over the top. Tiny played in the ruck, and was called Tiny because he was the biggest in the under-fifteens. He had just turned fourteen and was six feet tall, a long string bean his father called him. His father was even more than six feet and much bigger everywhere. He always wore shorts and tops with no sleeves even in winter, and had tattoos on his arms. Ria’s mother said tattoos were common, but Ria thought they were interesting and liked Tiny’s dad because he made jokes and laughed a lot.

‘Here you go, smiley, have a white one to go with your hair,’ he said, waving his arm and pretending to pull an icy pole from under the tarpaulin by magic. Ria smiled back at him and said thank you. She liked red or green icy poles best, but didn’t say so. James would be angry if she did. Annette got a red one, and Veronica got a green one, and they all shared, sitting in the mud behind the goal posts and not losing a drip.

*    *    *

That had been the best day.

She hoped James enjoyed the football yesterday. He nearly wasn’t allowed to go. Ria squirmed as she remembered and covered her ears. She could still hear her mother shrieking at him with her face all red and her head stuck out.

Ria was sitting at the kitchen table. She had been made to stay after everyone else because she hadn’t finished her porridge. She had to finish it. But she couldn’t. It was lumpy and gluggy and grey and there was no sugar or honey or milk to go on it. She sat there stirring it around and around the chipped aluminium bowl wishing she had a dog.

Her best friend had a dog. She once saw Margaret feed her dog Brussels sprouts under the table when no one else was looking. The dog seemed to like them. It poked its black button nose up over the edge of the table nearly into Margaret’s plate.

Ria loved dogs, even though it was weird about them liking Brussels sprouts. A dog would be her friend. She would look after it. She would. And it wouldn’t make any mess. Anyway, if it did she could clean it up. She didn’t know if dogs liked porridge, though.

She shifted again on her pew, no longer noticing the passing parade of the mass as the scene in their kitchen the previous morning played itself out in her head.

She was sitting there poking at her porridge when the door to the back verandah swung in against the fridge. She jumped, and knocked her spoon so that bits of porridge spattered her face and jumper as James stumbled into the kitchen. Her mother was right after him and pulled him around and shoved him up against the table. James leaned away from her as far as he could and opened and shut his mouth. He had his raincoat on and was hugging his kit bag in front of him.

‘And just where do you think you’re going, you sly creature?’ Ria’s mother grabbed the kit bag and threw it away from her. It hit the door into the dining room and fell sideways to the floor. Luckily, the catch stayed shut. She pulled James towards her by the front of his raincoat and pushed her face right up to his.

James turned his face to the side and stammered something about going to the footie. It was in Ballarat and he had a lift with his friend, Stephen. He had asked her last week and she had said he could go.

‘Don’t lie to me, you devil.’ James shrank further from his mother. She grabbed him again and poked him in the shoulder. ‘I said you might be able to go if you had done all your homework and your jobs. For a start, the shoes still have to be polished. So you’d better get going on them, hadn’t you, now?’ She stood straight with her hands on her hips when she said that, and her lips stretched so her teeth showed. She wasn’t smiling, though. She didn’t seem able to smile. Not with her eyes, anyway.

James slid down the end of the table and slumped on the floor. Ria was reaching out to try and touch him when she heard her father’s voice coming from the dining room.

‘Let the boy go,’ he said.

How long had he been there, and why hadn’t he done something before? Well, he never stood up for any of them against their mother. He even hit them himself with the strap when she told him to. Ria still loved her father, though. He was kind sometimes, and could be fun.

Ria’s mother rushed into the dining room and started yelling at her father. ‘Just what do you think you’re doing? How dare you interfere? I’ve said he can’t go.’

‘Let him go,’ her father said in a tired voice. ‘Let him go. He hardly ever has a chance to have some fun. I’ll do the shoes and get one of the other kids to help me. Let him go, for pity’s sake.’

James didn’t wait to hear what happened next. He grabbed his kit bag, shovelled two big spoonfuls of Ria’s porridge into his mouth, rubbed the top of her head and ran out of the kitchen. Ria didn’t hang around either. She smeared the rest of the porridge around her plate, dropped it into the sink, and scuttled out into the back yard, as far away from the dining room as possible. She didn’t want to hear any more yelling. Her ears hurt, and her stomach.

*    *    *

Someone was tugging at her shoulder. Ria opened her eyes and looked around. There was Father Carroll, bent over the altar – still saying the mass for the repose of James’ soul. She was kneeling when everyone else was standing. The mass was nearly finished and she hadn’t even noticed. Apart from just now, though, she must have stood and knelt and sat at all the right times. Annette would have tugged her before otherwise. Had she walked up to get communion when everyone else had? She must have. She really had been daydreaming. She was always getting into trouble for daydreaming or having her nose stuck in a book. She didn’t think she daydreamed nearly as much as Veronica did, but Veronica was quiet most of the time and didn’t cause trouble. Anyway, what was wrong with daydreaming? You could work things out when you daydreamed.

She had probably learnt to daydream in the box. She didn’t remember the box, but Annette had told her about it. She was put in the box a lot when she was little, Annette said. It was a wooden crate that had come with apples. She must have been pretty little or she would have climbed out of it, wouldn’t she? Unless she was too scared or something. Annette couldn’t explain that bit, although she said there was a harness that was sometimes tied to the top slat of the box. There was nothing else in the box, just Ria, and it sat in the middle of the back verandah. There wouldn’t have been much to look at or do. Annette said she tried to lift Ria out of the box sometimes, but her mother stopped her if she found out. Ria didn’t cry in the box, Annette said. She just sat there, curled up against the end, with her arms around her legs and her head resting on her knees.

She didn’t remember the box, but she did remember something about bananas that might have been about the box as well. She could see a pile of bananas, some still green, others with more yellow. She wanted to reach out and grab them. She might have been hungry, but she didn’t remember that. Perhaps she just liked the colours and shapes and wanted to hold them and feel their smooth skin and squishy softness underneath. She reached and stretched and could almost touch them, but then she was fallen down and something hard was digging into her front. She tried to get away from it but couldn’t and had to stop moving because it was too scratchy. She lay still. Then someone was lifting her up and holding her and patting her shoulder and she was crying and snuffling into their neck. Whoever it was took her outside to show her the snails around the gully trap. It must have been James. Annette wouldn’t want to look at snails.

There was something else pretty weird she could remember a bit. About being in a cot and at the same time being able to look down at herself in the cot, as if from the top of a ladder. It’s what she could see looking down at herself she could remember rather than what it felt like to be in the cot. She is curled like Annette said but turned on her stomach and her arms are wrapped around her middle instead of her knees. Her bottom pokes up. She looks very small curled in the corner of the dark coloured cot with its upright wooden slats. There is padding under her but it has rucked up so that you can see wire mesh under her head. Her head is tilted into the wire mesh. Her face is turned to the wall. She has nothing over her and nothing on except a singlet and a nappy, both of which are grey and saggy. One side of the nappy hangs down to her knee and the skin poking out is red and rough. The cot stands between two brown wardrobes. The room is dim. A light bulb hangs from a black cord on the ceiling but is not turned on. A shadow moves across the cot. Her eyes are open. She does not cry.

Those pictures in her head of the cot, and maybe the box, make Ria feel sad, but not nearly as sad as never seeing James again. And, she doesn’t mind being on her own now; sometimes she really wants to be.

Chapter 9

The nine of them trudged back down the hill in silent procession to assemble for breakfast. No one said anything about James. No one said anything. The scuffle of feet under the table and the scrape of the ladle in the porridge pan set Ria’s teeth on edge. She didn’t feel like crying any more. She didn’t feel sad. She felt … she didn’t know what she felt. Her body was stiff and her head was fuzzy. She didn’t want to eat porridge. It would sit like a baseball in her stomach. It had stuck to the pan while they were at Mass and black bits nestled among the lumps. She wanted to be in bed, curled up and facing the wall. The only one she wouldn’t mind being with was Annette.

Ria’s mother rattled her spoon on the wooden edge of the table. Everyone turned to look at her.

No one would be going to school or work that day, she said. She and Ria’s father must go to the funeral parlour during the morning and take James’ suit. Annette must press it before they went. Joseph, Patricia and Paul must ring their bosses and tell them they wouldn’t be at work. Some relatives would be coming at eleven o’clock to say the rosary. She hoped everyone at the table knew how to behave properly. She looked at each of them, one by one, including Ria’s father.

In the afternoon, she said, they would all go to the funeral parlour to view the body. At night there was another rosary at the church.

A fleck of porridge had stuck below her mouth and wiggled as she spoke, even though her lips didn’t move much and nor did her voice go up and down. She sounded like she did when she read out Saturday jobs.

Ria’s brothers and sisters stared at their porridge plates. Her father did too.

Annette slid from the bench and went towards the back verandah. Ria waited a minute and then followed her. She hadn’t eaten her porridge, but for once she got away with it. She didn’t want to be left alone with the rest of her family. She didn’t know why they didn’t talk about James and what had happened and explain it to her properly. It was like there was an invisible finger pointing at her and a mouth behind it whispering “don’t cry, don’t ask questions, don’t show you’re sad.” At least Annette had cried and would talk to her if she asked questions.

*    *    *

Annette was putting the blanket on the wooden table they used for ironing. She covered it with a sheet and smoothed the wrinkles. The sheet had scorch marks and black-edged holes where mistakes had been made with the iron. You had to lift the iron from its stand and spit on it to make sure it was hot but not too hot. As Ria moved towards her, Annette looked up and her mouth wobbled. She already had James’ suit on a chair next to her. She lifted up the jacket as if it was something precious and laid it carefully on the ironing table.

‘Would you like to help me, Ri?’ she asked, looking sadly at a frayed patch on the elbow of the jacket. ‘It’s not much of a suit, is it, but we’ll make it look as good as we can, eh?’

It was James’ grey school suit, and it was really too small for him but he still looked nice in it with his white shirt and blue and yellow school tie. It had a smell of James, and Ria snuffled her face in the sleeve, wrapping it around her like a towel.

James didn’t do well at school. He seemed to get into trouble there just like he did at home. Ria couldn’t understand why. James was nice. People picked on him too much, and nobody seemed to stand up for him. He didn’t seem to mind, and never tried to tell adults when they were wrong. Not like Ria. She was always getting into trouble for being too big for her boots. Her mother would point at her and jab her in the arm. ‘Mar-ri-a,’ she would say and it would sound like she was huffing. ‘Mar-ri-a, you’d better watch yourself, young lady, or you’ll be made to smirk on the other side of your face before too long.’

Annette placed the iron carefully on its stand and crouched down next to Ria who was emptying the pockets of the suit pants. Dirty handkerchiefs, used tram tickets, chewey wrappers, a crumpled photo, and James’ precious penknife were piled in her lap. Annette picked up the penknife, sitting it in the palm of her hand. Ria straightened the photo.

‘Look, Annie,’ she whispered.

Annette took the photo and held it in front of her, sitting very still. Both girls looked at it for a long time. They moved closer, hugging each other as if they would never let go, tears streaming down their faces. They didn’t bother brushing them away.

The photo showed James, Annette, Veronica, and Ria standing in a row with their arms across each other’s shoulders. James is still in his footie togs, and covered in mud, except for his hands. Someone must have made him wash his hands. It must have been the day Tiny’s dad brought the icy poles. Ria could remember him taking photos that day, and she still has an icy pole stick hanging out her mouth, making a stupid grin around it. James looks really pleased with himself, and Annette and Veronica are smiling and happy too.

‘I wish we could go back to that day, Ri.’ Annette wiped the photo across the arm of her shirt to smooth it again and dry their tears that had dropped on it.

‘Yeah …’ Ria picked up the photo and brought it close to her face. ‘Annie, do you think if we could, and if we promised to be good and look after each other, do you think God would have done this then?’

‘I don’t know why James had to die, Ri.’ Annette pushed up onto her feet and went back to her ironing. ‘Do you know what I wish? Oh, never mind,’ she rushed on before Ria had a chance to say anything. ‘Could I keep the photo?’

‘Yes, you keep it, Annie. I’ll ask you when I want to look at it.’

Annette nodded, and tucking the photo into her pocket, pointed towards the penknife.

‘Maybe you could have that now, Ri. I’m sure James would like you to. But keep it somewhere safe.’ She opened the knife and slid her fingers lightly along the blade. ‘It’s pretty sharp, so be careful with it.’ She slipped the knife into the breast pocket of Ria’s smock and smiled her wobbly smile.

Doing her best to smile back, Ria lifted the pressing cloth from its bowl of water, wrung it out, and passed it to her sister. The iron hissed when it touched the cloth.

‘Why is everything so strange, Annie?’

‘What sort of strange?’ Annette concentrated on flattening the pressing cloth, but Ria knew she was listening. Her head was tilted in the way it did when she was trying to understand.

‘Well, I know James is dead. And I know we won’t see him again, and that makes me awfully sad. But no one seems sad, except you and me. Maybe Dad, but he looks more like he doesn’t know where he is. He isn’t crying or anything. Why doesn’t anyone say anything? Why does everything feel so angry? Like, even though it’s really quiet, you’re just waiting for the yelling to start.’

‘I don’t really know what’s happening. Mum was angry with Dad anyway because he let James go to the footie yesterday. Then, when it ended the way it did …’

Ria had taken the penknife out of her pocket and was turning it over and over in the palm of her hand. She would look after it, and treasure it. Of course she would, but she would much rather James was here and could show her how to use it. She looked up at Annette. ‘But, it’s not Dad’s fault about the truck, is it?’

‘You’re right, Ri. Of course you are. It’s not Dad’s fault, but Mum’s still blaming him anyway. Everything always has to be someone’s fault, except hers, even an accident. She’ll take it out on him, that’s for sure.’

Annette shook her head and picked up the trousers. ‘It was awful last night, Ri. When the police came, Mum first of all thought James was in trouble, and she carried on about how he had been brought up in a good Catholic home and it wasn’t her fault if he had gone to the bad. He must’ve been born that way. She’d done her best to beat the devil out of him. Then, when she realised he was dead, all she seemed to care about was whether he’d had the last rites. She rang Father Carroll and got him to ring the hospital chaplain to find out. Dad just sat through it all looking as if he’d been hit with a brick. We were all sent to bed, but I couldn’t sleep and I could hear her ranting and raving at Dad about what a stupid man he is and look what it’s come to and she hopes he’s proud of himself and lots of other stuff. You know what she’s like.’ Annette sighed, lifting her shoulders right up and then letting them go and shaking herself all over.

Ria curled in on herself. She pulled her knees up and dropped her head onto them. ‘Poor Dad,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘No it’s not. But, what do you expect?’ Annette sounded angry now. She almost spat when she said the last words. She whipped up the pieces of suit, the shirt and tie and arranged them on a hanger. She was marching off towards the kitchen when she stopped. ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘His shoes. We’ll have to polish his shoes. That was another thing Mum carried on about yesterday, even before anything happened. That for all his grand promises, Dad hadn’t even managed to get the shoes polished, and wasn’t that just typical of him, and what had he been doing all day anyway.’

‘I’ll do them,’ Ria said, jumping up. ‘I’ll do James’ first, then I’ll do everyone else’s.’

It felt better, somehow, to have something to do. She liked the spicy smell of boot polish and the way the shoes went dull when you put it on and gleamed when you polished it off. She liked to rub and rub until even the scuffed bits shone.

James wouldn’t be cleaning any more shoes. He wouldn’t get his ears boxed again, or be hit with the strap, or be pulled out of bed in the middle of the night. Maybe he was better off where he was. She closed her eyes and put her hands together. She didn’t say any prayers, but made some wishes. Then she went to collect shoes and line them up in the back yard with the brown and black boot polishes and all the rags.

*    *    *

As she worked away at the shoes, she started thinking about the boys being pulled out of bed in the middle of the night. She didn’t understand why it happened, but their bedroom was next to hers so she heard what went on. The boys’ room wasn’t really a bedroom, just part of the back verandah that had been closed in with asbestos sheeting. It was tiny, with barely enough space between the narrow beds to get between them. The beds were arranged in a u-shape and the rest of the space was taken up with a rickety wardrobe that wasn’t very big either but big enough to hold their spare clothes. That’s where they kept their footie togs as well. Sometimes it smelt pretty bad in there. Ria wasn’t allowed in, but sometimes she just poked her head in the door to see if James was there. If he was he would sometimes come out to play hopscotch or jacks with her. Ria made her own jacks from the knuckles out of lamb. When they were dried out and the gristle eaten off them by ants, she could paint them different colours. They weren’t shiny like the ones at Coles. She would love a set like that with the bright colours that didn’t chip off.

It always happened after dark when everyone was supposed to be asleep. Ria would be woken by the noise, sounds that went right into your head and made the top of it hurt. Her mother would be in the boys’ room yelling at them to get out of their beds; she had come to inspect their sheets. Why she would want to inspect sheets in the middle of the night Ria didn’t know. Their sheets hardly ever got changed and that was surely a daytime job anyway.

Sometimes it went quiet fairly quickly, other times it got worse and worse. What had she done, her mother yelled, to deserve such filth for sons? They were evil, dirty creatures. They had mortal sin on their souls and had better get themselves to confession tomorrow. If they died in that state they would burn in hellfire forever.

Ria got really scared then. She hated going to confession, that spooky cupboard built in to the side of the church. They were marched across from school and lined up to go into it every week. It was divided into three sections with the priest in the middle and a dark compartment on either side. When it was your turn to go in, you had to kneel in your section until the priest opened the shutter to hear you, and then you told him how long it was since your last confession (it was always a week so Ria didn’t know why you had to say that bit) and what sins you had committed (it was always disobedience for Ria, which is a venial sin) and then he gave you penance (usually a decade of the rosary, sometimes more if it was Father Carroll). It was hard to breathe in there and smelt bad. Ria got in and out as quickly as she could, but if you had mortal sins it would probably take ages. Ria hadn’t ever had mortal sins; she wasn’t even sure what they were apart from killing someone. She hoped her mother was wrong about the boys. Maybe she said things just to scare them.

The thumps and bangs in the boys’ room sometimes went on and on and Ria’s father was made to bring the strap. Ria would push her head under her pillow and pull it hard down over her ears but she could never block out the sounds. Yelling, grunting, moaning, groaning, and then the muffled sobs. They were the worst. She would toss and turn after everything had finally gone quiet. She longed to go out and see the boys but never dared. She would get belted too if she was caught and she hated going to school when it was hard to sit down. If Annette was awake they would sometimes whisper to each other. Ria would really have liked to crawl into Annette’s bed with her and be held, but that wasn’t allowed either. She asked Annette what she thought was happening in the room next door.

‘What have they done that’s so wrong, Annie? What can you do that’s so bad when you’re asleep?’ Ria whispered her puzzlement into the threatening night.

‘I don’t know, Ri,’ Annette whispered back, also sounding puzzled. ‘It makes it hard to be good when you don’t even know what that means.’

Ria lay still and thought about what Annette had said. ‘I think it means,’ she said at last, as much to herself as to Annette, ‘that you have to work out for yourself what’s right and do it even if your mother says it’s wrong.’

‘That sounds hard. How would you know what’s right unless someone told you?’ Annette spoke slowly, sounding a bit frightened.

Ria thought some more and then said, ‘How would you know what someone else told you was right? Mum says some things are right, like going to mass all the time and saying lots of rosaries, but she doesn’t seem to care about being kind. That doesn’t seem right. And then she says something the boys do when they’re asleep is wrong, and that can’t be right can it? Oh, this is confusing too, isn’t it?’ Ria giggled at what she was saying about right being wrong and wrong being right.

‘You’re probably right, Ri.’ Annette giggled too. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I just hope you don’t get yourself into too much trouble while you’re at it.’

*    *    *

The house was crowded with people and casseroles and cakes. Unsmiling people, with clothes that smelt of mothballs and lace-up shoes that bulged with bunions. Ria didn’t know these grim-faced adults. Her family didn’t go visiting, there were too many of them. If they did go out all together it was usually to church. Ria’s father had built a wooden seat that fitted between the front and back seats of the car so everyone could be in it together. Sometimes people shouted “cheaper by the dozen” when they saw Ria’s family out driving. Ria thought that was funny, but her mother told them not to take any notice and to keep saying the rosary.

That was how they spent the time together in the car – saying the rosary. Glorious mysteries, joyful mysteries, sorrowful mysteries. Ria wished something glorious or joyful would happen. She wouldn’t mind praying for that. She didn’t want to pray for forgiveness from sin, or to be free from the devil’s temptations. She did hope James was somewhere nice now though. Perhaps she could pray for that, although she wasn’t sure it would make any difference.

They didn’t usually have visitors so today was unusual. Apart from their auntie who was a nun, and who visited with another nun, there was really only their First Friday girl. They didn’t have friends over to play. Their mother said there were enough of them. They could play with each other, or she would find them a job if they were bored.

Their First Friday girl was called Irene. She was the same age as Veronica, a year older than Ria. She stayed on Thursday night to be there for First Friday Mass. The first Friday of each month was special, although Ria wasn’t sure why. Irene was an only child. Her mother was Non-Catholic and her father was lapsed. They were supposed to feel sorry for Irene because of her parents, but Irene didn’t seem to mind. She said she had tea parties with her parents. Her mother baked fairy cakes with pink and brown and yellow icing and her father took her out for ice cream on Saturdays. She could have a double-header if she wanted to. Once he took Annette and Veronica and Ria as well. Ria had a double-header with chocolate on one side and strawberry on the other.

Irene always came in different clothes and her school clothes were packed in a case with her night things. Sometimes she brought a bag of her old clothes for Ria. There were fluffy light-coloured twin sets and pleated tartan skirts and sleeveless summer dresses with big flower patterns and white cotton shirts with lace on the collars and cuffs and embroidery on the front. Sometimes there might be a warm woollen overcoat or patent leather shoes with buckles. The clothes usually fitted Ria okay, but they didn’t feel comfortable. They were usually very pretty.

Ria hovered in the doorway of the dining room. She couldn’t see her father. Her mother was sitting in a straight-backed chair in the corner just inside the door, her head bent and nodding as people said how awful it all was and what a tragedy and how hard it must be for her to hold herself together but how she must be brave because it was God’s will and He would give her strength and they would all pray for her as well as for the repose of James’ soul.

Ria’s mother sat, clutching a photo of James in her hand, and offering it around for people to look at. It must have been taken fairly recently, although Ria couldn’t remember when. It was probably taken for school. James is wearing his suit, the same one they had pressed that morning. His blond corkscrew curls that were like Ria’s when they were longer, are cut short and flat to his head so his ears stick out bigger than usual. Kids teased James about his ears. He didn’t care, just said he was learning to flap them so as to shoo flies from his face. He is smiling slightly, a shy smile that reaches his eyes but doesn’t quite take away the frightened look.

‘Poor James.’ Ria’s mother bowed her head over the photo. ‘My poor James.’ She patted her face with a handkerchief and then twisted it in her lap. Someone asked if she wanted a cup of tea. ‘Oh, that would be good,’ she said, leaning back against the chair and shutting her eyes.

Ria shook her head. She thought of her mother yesterday, yelling and hitting at James. She thought of her this morning, sending off waves of anger and looking away from Ria’s father. Those times seemed more real than what was happening now.

Her mother had seen her and was tugging Ria’s skirt at the back so she was pulled to stand by her mother’s knee. ‘Oh, here’s Maria,’ she said, looking around the group. ‘My youngest, you know. Maria will get the tea, won’t you, dear? And for everyone else as well.’

Ria shifted sideways to free her skirt, but her mother’s fingers dug into the skin at her waist, pinching the soft flesh. ‘This is Auntie Eileen, Auntie Kate, Auntie Hannah, Uncle Ted, and Uncle Laurie,’ she said, pointing to each of these people in turn. ‘They’ve come a long way to be with us on this sad occasion. Say hello, Maria.’

Ria nodded at the blue permed heads and the balding grey ones. She knew what was expected of her. She was supposed to kiss all these old people whom she didn’t even know, and pretend she was glad to see them. Well, she wasn’t going to do it. She wasn’t glad to see them, and she wasn’t going to pretend she was. She would say hello and make the tea and that was that.

‘Hello,’ she said, in what she hoped was a polite voice. ‘How do you like your tea?’ She pulled away from her mother’s grip and moved to the side while requests were made with or without milk, with or without sugar. The sugar bit was easy; she would just bring the bowl. All she needed to remember was black or white. She moved around the room and counted eleven for white and four for black. That was a lot of cups of tea.

She went to find Annette and get some help. Once the tea was made and drunk there was still the rosary to go. She could just hear this lot droning their way through the endless prayers, and all the trimmings her mother would add on at the beginning and end. She didn’t know what good it would do. She would much rather sit somewhere quietly and look at some photos of James and think about him on her own.

*    *    *

It hadn’t been much of a life, she was sure of that. James was always in trouble. Well, all of them got into trouble, apart from Therese. She was delicate. She always seemed to be sick when there was something that had to be done, like the food shopping or cleaning out the kitchen cupboards or the washing. She even got out of darning socks or mending shirts and that seemed strange when all you had to do was sit there and sew.

She was spoilt with food too. When they had chops for tea, which wasn’t often because they cost too much, Therese got the meaty part in the middle and the three little girls (that’s what Annette and Veronica and Ria were called) got what was left on the bones when she was finished.

‘I get so mad when that happens,’ Annette grumbled to Ria one day. ‘I love my chops, and I want the meaty bits too.’

‘Me too,’ agreed Ria. ‘I hate that stuff she puts on them too.’

‘Vinegar. She pours that on all her food.’

‘She doesn’t have to eat all her vegetables, either. Not fair.’

They didn’t bother saying anything, though. Ria’s mother would just say they were jealous of Therese and should be ashamed of themselves and thank God for their own good health when poor Therese was so sick most of the time. Ria didn’t think that was right. She didn’t want to be like Therese. She just thought it wasn’t fair Therese could get away with so much none of the rest of them could.

Therese sometimes wandered around the house at night and made up weird mixtures like bran and yoghurt and spooned them down bent over the kitchen sink. Then she would put her fingers down her throat. Ria had seen her do that once when she got up in the middle of the night to go to the toilet. Therese had rushed at her with blobs of sick dribbling down her chin and shoved her up against the wall.

‘What’s the matter with you, Therese? Let me go.’ Ria didn’t understand what was going on, and Therese was hurting her shoulder.

‘If you dare say anything,’ Therese hissed into Ria’s face, with a really mean look on her own face, ‘I’ll say I caught you stealing the yoghurt. So, just watch yourself, smarty pants.’

Ria breathed through her mouth and turned her head aside to get away from the smell of sick. ‘Of course I won’t say anything. I’d just get into trouble.’

Yes, they all got into trouble, except Therese. But James got into the most trouble. He was a liar, a thief, a devil, sinful, evil, disgusting. Ria didn’t know what he did to be called all those names but she cringed when it happened and tried to send silent messages for him to take no notice. He got hit around the head a lot when it happened as well. Afterwards his big ears would seem to swell and get red and stick out more. It was worst in winter because of the chilblains. It really hurt to get hit around the head when you had chilblains on your ears. Ria knew because it happened to her too.

James never hit back. Well, he wouldn’t dare, none of them would. He just sat there and cowered and when it was over put his hands up over his head and whimpered. Then he would get hit again and told to stop his blubbering.

Ria wasn’t always there when it happened. Sometimes she just heard. Her stomach would go tight and hot. It felt like there were hands inside her with long pointy nails that squeezed and pinched. She would try to find him afterwards just to give him a cuddle. He always smiled at her and told her he loved her. He would give her a chewey sometimes if he had one. But she had to be very careful. If her mother saw her with chewey she wanted to know where she got it. If she said James gave it to her he would get into trouble again. Their mother always thought James must have stolen it. Then she would search all his pockets and his school bag and his room and might yell at their father to bring in the strap. Ria tried to save her chewey until it seemed safe to eat. That was hard though, especially if it got hot and started to go sticky in her pocket.

Chapter 10

The rosary was done, the relatives were gone and they had eaten two of the casseroles. Ria and Annette had washed and dried the dishes and put away the ones that were theirs. Ria was relieved not to have to answer any more questions about which one was she then, and how old was she now, and what grade was she up to at school, and what would they all do without James, and she’d have to make a special novena for him, wouldn’t she, and be especially good for her parents to make it up to them.

She was glad she didn’t see her relatives very often if they always said things like that. Annette said adults always asked questions because they didn’t know how to talk to kids. When she was an adult she wouldn’t talk to kids at all if she couldn’t think of other things to say.

She felt scared about the afternoon. She didn’t want to go, and didn’t even want to think about it. She went to find Annette.

‘I don’t want to think about it, either. What can we do, Ri?’

‘We need to do something, Annie. What can we do?’

‘I just said that, copycat.’ They both giggled.

‘I know,’ said Ria. ‘Let’s clean the kitchen floor.’

‘We do that on Saturdays.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Okay.’

They lifted everything out of the kitchen; the table and chairs and the long bench that went down one side of the table. Annette swept with the big broom and Ria went around the edges and under the stove with the small broom that went with the dust pan. There was lots of dust and crumbs and dirt after all the visitors. They filled the bucket with hot soapy water and Annette mopped, Ria helping to squeeze the mop and doing the edges with a clean wet rag. When they had finished they opened the kitchen window so the floor would dry quickly. Sometimes on Saturdays they polished the floor as well, but they didn’t have time today. The floor was lino that Ria’s father had put down himself. He was good at things like that, and when the floor was clean and polished Ria thought it looked nice. It had swirls of purple and mauve and green. She would like some shorts in those colours.

They didn’t talk while they cleaned the floor, just worked together like they always did. It was better doing it today, because sometimes on Saturdays the boys came home from footie training just after they finished and tromped all over the clean floor with their muddy boots. That made Ria mad and she told them so one day. After that they sometimes remembered to take their boots off in the back verandah before they came into the kitchen. James was pretty good at remembering.

*    *    *

When they had finished, Ria washed her face and hands and was ready when it was time to get into the car. She didn’t really know what it meant to view the body but it sounded spooky. Her mother wasn’t yelling, but you still knew you couldn’t ask questions. She had her black hat pulled down almost over her eyes and her mouth was a straight line underneath. Ria sat in the middle of Annette and Veronica and held their hands. Annette’s eyes were red and Veronica had made her fingers bleed.

Ria wished the car would break down. It often did, and her father spent hours peering under the bonnet or with his skinny legs stuck out underneath the chassis in his greasy overalls and the car up on ramps. It didn’t start at first so he got out and worked on it with the crank handle. After a few moments, during which Ria scarcely breathed, it spluttered into life. Her father wiped his hands on an old piece of rag, and they were ready to go.

Ria sat back and shuffled her bottom to get comfortable. There was more room on the wooden bench seat now because there were only three of them on it instead of four. James usually sat next to her and it felt too big without him. She had liked it when they were all squashed up, even on hot days. Sometimes they were told not to touch each other. It was obscene, their mother said, to paw each other. “Keep your hands to yourself,” was one of her sayings, although she didn’t follow her own rule.

They drove through streets Ria didn’t know. She didn’t know her way to many places, only to church and school and they were almost at the same place, and to the footie ground where her brothers played their home matches, and to a couple of her friends’ houses.

*    *    *

When she went to high school next year she would catch the tram. It took an hour to get there on two separate trams and the same to get home. She couldn’t wait. It wasn’t high school, exactly, but a Catholic secondary school for girls. All her brothers had been to a Catholic secondary school for boys, and her sisters to the same Catholic secondary school Ria would be going to, even though it cost more money than going to State schools. That was why they only really had their school clothes and sometimes didn’t have enough food.

There would only be four of them still at school now – Therese, Annette, Veronica, and Ria. Therese would finish this year, and Annette would probably leave soon too. Then it would be just Veronica and Ria, so maybe they would have more money.

‘Catholic children must be sent to Catholic schools,’ Ria’s mother said many times. ‘That is the rule. There are too many evil influences at non-Catholic schools.’

Ria thought some of the influences at Catholic schools were evil, too, like the kids getting hit with sticks and straps, or being made to wear the dunce’s cap and stand in the corner, or having their lunch taken away from them for talking in class, or being made to stay after school to write lines.

Ria had to write “I must not answer back to my teacher” one hundred times once. All she had done was ask Sister Assumpta two questions. Sister Assumpta had been talking about the starving children in Africa. Ria put her hand up to show she wanted to ask a question.

‘What is it now, Ria Flanagan?’

‘Why does God let that happen?’ Ria asked, even though Sister Assumpta had her crabby look.

‘All you children should be grateful for the food on your table,’ Sister Assumpta said, flicking her strap up and down. ‘And if you don’t like what your mother makes for dinner, you should eat it anyway, and think of all those starving children.’

‘How would that help them, though?’ Ria asked straight back without putting her hand up again first. She supposed that was why it was called answering back. Anyway, that’s when Sister Assumpta gave her the lines.

‘That might teach you a lesson,’ Sister Assumpta said, poking her finger into Ria’s shoulder.

Ria didn’t know what it was supposed to teach her, but had learnt enough not to ask. Sister Assumpta still hadn’t answered the questions that had got her into trouble in the first place.

They weren’t allowed to play with kids from Non-Catholic schools. That was another rule. Her mother said Non-Catholic kids were heathens. Ria thought some of them looked nice. There were kids who lived in their street who were Non-Catholics and sometimes they said hello or smiled at Ria. She didn’t know their names, but would like to play with them.

Her school and the State school were opposite each other. Sometimes kids lined up at the fences and yelled across the road: “Proddie dogs stink like frogs sitting on their water logs,” and other things like that. The Protestant kids yelled back. Ria wondered why they didn’t get into trouble or have to write lines for all that yelling, but they seemed to get away with it.

Ria’s parents and lots of other people thought the government should pay for Catholic schools. They sometimes had working bees at their place to make banners about voting for the DLP.

‘That stands for the Democratic Labor Party,’ Ria’s father told her. ‘It’s the best because it’s anti-communist.’

‘What does anti-communist mean?’

‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ Ria’s father said, patting her head in a way she hated. ‘All you need to know is to vote for them when you’re old enough.’

It made Ria mad when adults talked to her like that, even madder than Therese getting the best part of the chops. She would find out about anti-communism for herself from a book. She didn’t understand what it all had to do with the government paying for Catholic schools, either. She would find that out for herself as well.

*    *    *

It was wet and windy as they drove along and the windows had to be shut so it was steamy inside from their breaths. Ria’s father kept wiping the windscreen in front of him with his handkerchief so he could see out. Ria could just make out the blurry shapes of the few people out on the streets who scurried along with hat brims down and collars turned up. Those with umbrellas held them out in front or behind, depending on which way they were going.

She wished she was out there with them, whatever they were doing and however wet they were getting. She would even rather be at school. At least you had friends there who would talk to you, and playing in the rain could be fun sometimes. She didn’t believe the stories about children being washed away into storm water drains.

The car slowed at a crossroad. Ria’s father wound down his window and stuck his arm straight out to show he was turning right.

This must be the street. It was narrow with hardly any footpath and just enough room for two cars to pass going opposite ways. Bits of wet newspaper and cigarette packets and leaves and other rubbish clung to the sides of buildings and collected in bunches along the gutter. Their car stopped at a grey building with a wide concrete driveway and a sign that said “Parking at Rear”.

Ria’s mother hadn’t said the rosary during the drive. She had stared straight ahead out the windscreen. She swung her body out of the car now as if it was a huge load she had to lift. Everyone followed her up to the front door of the funeral parlour. Ria stayed at the back, scuffing her shoes across the rough concrete. One of her shoelaces was undone. She left it like that.

The front door was already open and two men in grey, the same colour as the building, were standing outside ushering everyone in. They both looked the same. Their suits were grey. Their hair was grey and straight, parted at the side and combed straight downward. They had dark ties and white shirts and black polished shoes. Ria wondered if they had children at home who had to polish their shoes. Even their faces were sort of grey with thin lips turning down at the corners. When they talked they whispered. Ria couldn’t hear what they were saying. She wondered if they were twins.

‘We are the Flanagans,’ Ria’s mother announced, not looking at either man. ‘We have come to pray for James and to view his body. Please show us where to go. We do not require attendance.’ She stood in front of one of the men while the rest of the family filed into the entrance. Ria was the last and her mother tugged her through the door behind her.

The two grey men moved inside, rocked on their heels and folded their hands below their waists. One man inclined his head, the other spoke in a slightly louder voice than before. ‘As you wish. The lounge is also available for your use.’ He indicated the lounge with a sweep of his right arm. ‘Tea can be provided when you are ready. We could take the younger children into the lounge while you visit the chapel if you prefer.’

‘We do not prefer. They will come with us. We will not be having tea.’

Ria’s mother spoke in the voice she used with shop people when she was telling them what she wanted or didn’t want. ‘Don’t give me any of your rubbish,’ she would snap at the red-faced butcher while Ria tried to make herself small under the counter. ‘And let me see it before you wrap it up.’ Her mother would reach over the counter to turn the meat and prod it and comment on the colour and thickness of fat. Then, if she decided to buy it, she would mutter about daylight robbery and insist on putting it on the scales herself. The butcher would wipe thick fingers on his bloody apron and wait until she was finished.

Ria looked towards the lounge, longing for somewhere to be as far from the chapel and its contents as possible. She moved her hand around and around on her stomach the way Margaret’s mother had shown her was good when you had a pain.

*    *    *

She wished Margaret’s mother was here now. She would know what to do and she would know, even without being told, that Ria didn’t want to view the body and would make that all right too. Margaret’s mother was short, not much taller than Ria, and had bouncy brown hair and curving lines around her eyes and mouth from laughing. She had a big bosom that stuck out in front like a shelf but was soft to lean against and smelt of lavender powder.

‘You know why that’s there, young Ria,’ she said once, laughing her laugh that came right up from her stomach, ‘apart from being a cushion for girls to lean against? Well, let me tell you. It’s to stop me bruising my knees when I walk into things. God made me clumsy, but He also gave me this.’ And she walked over to the wall and stood facing it to show what she meant.

Margaret was lucky.

*    *    *

Ria didn’t look around when they got into the chapel. It was pretty dim for the middle of the afternoon. The windows were narrow and high up, made of stained glass. They would be pretty with the light behind them, even though Ria didn’t much like the bleeding hearts and sad faces that were put into church windows. Some candles on the altar flickered from the draughts they had made coming in. Ria could see a dark shape in the aisle, but turned away from it, and as soon as she got into a pew, shut her eyes tight and pretended she was somewhere else.

*    *    *

She pretended she was in her secret place down the side of the house, between their place and the O’Connors’. It was a narrow strip of stones and mud and weeds. No one ever went there and there was a trap door into the underneath of the house. Ria kept an old school case behind the trap door. She had found it in rubbish left out on somebody’s nature strip, and hid her treasures in it.

She had a shoulder bag in her case her godmother had given her for her birthday when she was five. It was pink with a blue elephant on the front and had a zip pocket in the lining. She was too old for it now, but still liked it anyway. Inside the pocket Ria kept a white linen handkerchief Margaret had given her last Christmas. It had gotten a bit dirty but was still pretty with its edge of embroidery and her name sewn into the corner. Margaret’s mother must have helped her with that.

The lolly tin she had in her case hardly ever had anything in it, but it had a white fluffy dog on the front with its tongue hanging out, and Ria would open the tin and pretend there were lollies in it and some biscuits for the dog. She was glad no one could see her do that. Sometimes, if James gave her chewey or Margaret’s mother gave her a macaroon she would save some for the tin.

She kept her favourite books and the best of the comics she made from the newspapers in the case, and sometimes she would sit leaning against the brick wall of the house with her legs stretched out and read for ages. She didn’t know how many times she had read The Naughtiest Girl in School. Boarding school sounded so much fun. She would love to have Amelia for a friend. She could imagine the adventures they would have going down to the shops to spend their pocket money and to Saturday pictures. Even midnight feasts.

She felt cosy down the side of the house looking at her treasures and reading. Sometimes she would put bits of string or ribbon or coloured buttons or shells in the case as well. When she got home today she would find a photo of James. She would put his penknife in the tin too, and then she could take an apple and cut it up with the knife. She would take a rag so she could clean the knife afterwards.

Sometimes when she was down the side of the house she would pretend she was sitting up in bed. Her imaginary bed was large and white and soft with a pile of lavender-scented pillows to lean against. It was in a room of her own. Beside the bed was a polished round wooden table holding not just one book but a whole stack: The Famous Five, Secret Seven, Coles Funny Picture Book. It also held a mug of frothy hot cocoa her mother had just brought her with three pink and white marshmallows bobbing on the top. Her gently smiling mother would set the cocoa down carefully so as not to spill any on the books and stroke her brow lovingly. Her lolly tin was under the pillows and was full of her favourite lollies – pink sherbet bombs, liquorice blocks, chocolate-coated caramels and candy-coated bubblegum. The tin needed to be bigger to fit all those lollies but the shape and pattern were the same. Her white lace hanky was sparkling clean and poked out from under the bottom pillow. Her elephant bag hung from the brass knob at the end of the bed. She sank back against the pillows, sipped her cocoa, replaced it on the table, and reached for another book.

*    *    *

While she was imagining all these things in one part of her head, Ria was still able to give the right responses to the prayers her real-life mother was leading. She knew all the prayers so well she didn’t have to think about them. She realised her mother had finished and was now standing up. She moved into the aisle and started walking towards the front of the chapel, turning around once to make sure everyone was following. She stood at the end of the coffin and looked in, hands clenched at her sides. Ria could not tell what her face was saying.

She wished she could talk to her mother and ask her what she was feeling. Did she love James? Did she hate him? Did she care he was dead? Why didn’t she say anything? Ria’s father stood at the side of the coffin. He looked smaller since yesterday. His back was bent and his head was bowed. He reached out and touched his son’s hand and looked as if he was whispering something. Ria’s mother nudged him with her elbow and muttered. Ria couldn’t hear what she said, but her father stood back with his arms hanging from his thin shoulders.

Ria did not want to look at James, not with everyone else there anyway. She didn’t want to look at her parents any more either. She squinted her eyes and shifted from foot to foot. Finally, her mother moved away and walked towards the door. The rest of the family trailed behind her.

Ria hung back at the end of the line and then, as everyone moved forward, she tiptoed back to the coffin. James lay on his back, straight out with his arms beside him. His face was putty coloured, but there were no squash marks and he looked peaceful. His hair was done in a wave off his face and his eyes and mouth were shut. Ria reached out and touched his cheek. It felt cold and stiff, a bit like candle wax. She leaned over and brushed her lips close to his forehead.

‘Goodbye, James,’ she whispered, touching him lightly on both shoulders. ‘I’m glad you won’t get sore ears anymore. I hope you’re somewhere warm and happy. I’ll look after your penknife.’ She could feel her throat closing up. ‘I love you, James … Thank you for all the cheweys,’ she added under her breath as she stumbled down the aisle to the rest of her family.

She was glad she had gone back even though her mother snapped at her for dawdling and told her to pull her socks up. ‘Pull your socks up’ was something her mother said when anyone was sad or angry. ‘Pull your socks up and be grateful you’ve got a roof over your head,’ she would say if anyone needed anything for school, and couldn’t have it because there wasn’t enough money. Mostly, no one asked for things.

*    *    *

Once, when James was upset because he had grown too big for his footie boots, she bundled everyone into the car and made Ria’s father drive them to Fitzroy.

‘You can look at the slums and then maybe you’ll stop your whining,’ she said, wagging her finger at them before starting to say the rosary.

They drove up and down streets of tumbledown houses with broken windows and sagging roofs that, their mother said, had no light or hot water or gas for cooking. ‘And see those children,’ she said, pointing to a group playing hopscotch on the footpath. ‘They don’t even have shoes or jumpers, and it’s July. So, you lot can just thank God for what you’ve got, and don’t let me hear any more of your whining.’

Ria didn’t think she would mind much about not being able to have things, if her mother would laugh sometimes. Margaret’s family laughed a lot. Sometimes Margaret’s parents played hide and seek with the kids and were silly and giggly, jumping out from behind doors and yelling “boo” from under beds. They also made fun things, like paper skirts and papier-mache and collages from old newspapers. They had Monopoly, and played it for hours on Sunday afternoons. Margaret’s mother made Anzac biscuits and hot cocoa. They sat at the kitchen table, and the glow from the wood stove felt warm and safe. Ria always wanted to stay and stay.

*    *    *

For the next two days, Ria felt like a wind-up toy. The family went to the rosary at the church, and lots of people came for the prayer vigil at home. They brought more casseroles and sandwiches and cakes and Ria spent most of the time making cups of tea and doing washing up.

The funeral passed in a blur of prayers and incense and candles. The cemetery was cold and wet and Ria shut her eyes so she didn’t see most of what was happening. There were no flowers and nobody cried as far as Ria could tell.

She knew she was only ten, and maybe she was being a baby, but surely it wasn’t right. All anybody seemed to care about was James’ immortal soul and whether he had died in a state of grace. He was only fifteen. Surely there were other things that were important to talk about and remember.

Ria wasn’t at all sure she believed in an immortal soul, although she wouldn’t have said so out loud. She needed more time to think about it before she decided. She didn’t see the point in preaching about how God loves everyone when people didn’t seem to love each other very much a lot of the time. She couldn’t understand how people could fight wars about religion. She had read about some of them and about the early Popes. Some of them behaved pretty badly for people who were supposed to be infallible. Surely God, if there was one, wouldn’t want people killing each other just because they couldn’t agree about which church was best?

*    *    *

She crept off on her own after the funeral. Someone else could make the cups of tea. She would like to see Father Carroll making a cup of tea or doing the dishes. He probably wouldn’t be able to because he wouldn’t be able to see over his own stupid nose. The priests had a housekeeper at the presbytery who did everything for them. That’s what they thought women were for, probably – washing and ironing and mending and cleaning and cooking and shopping. Well, that’s what women seemed to do mostly.

Sometimes, though, when Ria came home from school her mother would be sitting on the laundry step staring into space with the dirty washing spread out behind her just like it had been when Ria left for school in the morning. Ria would have to help load the washing machine and empty the copper and rinse things with bluo. She liked putting the white things into the bluo, the way it made them look brighter and whiter. Wringing everything out was hard, though. Her arm got really tired turning the handle, but it was interesting seeing the squeezed things coming out the other side of the rollers. Ria’s mother didn’t yell at those times, just told Ria in a quiet voice what to do next. She even said “thank you” when Ria offered to peg the washing on the line.

‘Do you think Mum wanted to have so many kids?’ she asked Annette once.

‘I don’t know, Ri, but I don’t think so. I think she did it because, well, because she’s a Catholic, and she believes she’ll go to heaven if she has lots of kids.’

Ria thought about the Catholic magazines her mother read aloud at dinner time. They often had photos of families on the cover, sometimes with more than twenty children.

All those shoes lined up for polishing! ‘And, they’d have to have a truck to take them all to Mass,’ exclaimed Annette, and they fell on each other laughing.

Ria went into her room, closed the door and leaned her back against it. She thought about wedging something under it but decided not to. She didn’t want to keep Annette or Veronica out. She would like Annette to come. She could talk to Annette. Annette wouldn’t tell her she was stupid or talking nonsense or behaving like an imbecile. Ria’s mother used to call James an imbecile. What a horrible word. It was probably worse than smart aleck. Ria was called a smart aleck. Stupid smart aleck, actually, which Ria thought was a bit stupid itself. It didn’t make sense.

‘Oh, James,’ she said in her head. ‘Did anyone know how gentle and kind you could be? Was anyone ever gentle and kind to you? Did you ever have happy times? Maybe with your friends at footie? I hope so. I miss you. I wish you were here. Oh, James …’

Ria fell onto her bed, pushing her head into the pillow. She curled into a ball and pulled the pillow around her face. The earthy smell of old kapok loosened the knot in the pit of her stomach, and the pain surged upwards. The inside of her head was too big for the outside. She rolled around the bed, clutching the pillow to her throbbing temples. Tears spurted from her stinging eyes and great heaving sobs sent spasms through her body. She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around herself, letting the tears stream down her face and over her chin. She lay for a long time on her side then stretched out on her stomach with her head to one side.

She imagined James was in the room with her. She could feel his gentle presence. She even thought she could smell Juicy Fruit, and that seemed weird. She felt calmer though and lay more quietly, allowing the tears to wash down her face.

She didn’t notice the door open, but heard the voice behind her. ‘Oh, dear, dear,’ it said. ‘What have we here?’

Go away, Ria begged silently and pushed her face further into the pillow. She didn’t need some busybody telling her how lucky she was to be alive. She pretended to be asleep.

The hovering presence remained for a while but then she heard the door being gently closed. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe she should have spoken to whoever it was. She lay quietly and started to feel as if she really could go to sleep. Perhaps she would dream about James. She started to cry again, but it was softer now, and she licked at the salty liquid as it ran around her mouth.

She thought she might be dreaming when she heard people whispering.

‘I came in before because I heard noises, and then I saw Maria lying on the bed,’ whispered the voice. ‘She’s been crying her eyes out, but I didn’t know what to do.’

So, it was the woman from before.

‘Thanks, Auntie Kate.’ That was Annette’s voice. ‘It’s been awful for her. I’ll stay with her now.’

Ria could imagine the lopsided frown that would be creasing Annette’s forehead. She was sorry she had made so much noise. She didn’t want Annette to worry about her. She had her own worries.

‘Do you think I should get your mother?’

That must be Auntie Kate again, the woman who had been at the house the other day, one of the ones with the blue hair. She sounded a bit nervous.

‘No,’ Annette said, in a loud whisper, sounding nervous herself. ‘No, that wouldn’t be a good idea.’

‘I see.’

Ria wondered what she saw, but her own eyes were heavy again, and she let them close. Annette came and sat on her bed, and put her hand on top of Ria’s. Ria turned her hand over and squeezed Annette’s to let her know she was okay. She didn’t speak, though, she was too tired.

She slept for fourteen hours Annette told her later. She didn’t dream of James, or anything else she could remember. When she woke, or rather was woken, it seemed as if things were back to normal. Her mother was doing her usual thing – rousing everyone out of bed and hustling them off to church. It didn’t hurt to go to church. Ria just didn’t think it did much good. When she got a bit older she would say she wasn’t going to do it any more. She would go on Sundays and days of obligation, but not every day. Maybe once she went to secondary school that’s what she would do.

She only had a few more months left at primary school and she wanted to learn as much as she could. She always did well at school, but her mother often told her she was stupid, so she got confused. She was the youngest in her family so her brothers and sisters knew more than she did. She didn’t want to get to secondary school and find out she really was stupid.

Chapter 11

Ria put her head down at school and tried to ignore what was happening at home. She would sit at the dining room table trying to do her homework, but also waiting for her mother to burst into the room waving her arms and yelling, false teeth shooting forward in her mouth. Sometimes Ria wondered if they would fly right out. Half the time it didn’t make sense what she was yelling about.

What Ria did know, though, was that since James died, Annette was getting into more trouble. Their mother would grab Annette by the shoulders and shake her and demand to know what she knew about threepence that had been on the kitchen window sill, or why there was an apple core in the compost that still had apple on it, or why she hadn’t been to get the bread yet. She was just a stupid, lazy liar and a thief and what was to become of her their mother didn’t know. She would no doubt come to a bad end.

Ria would start to feel sick and then it was really hard to keep doing her homework. Her mother had spoken to James like that.

One morning they were home from school because it was a special feast day, and they didn’t get up so early because there was a late mass. Ria was already awake when her mother barged into their room. She was still in her nightdress and dressing gown and had nothing on her feet. The red gown was gaping at the front and the flannelette nightdress that had once been blue was missing buttons. The skin of her chest showed through, but not her breasts. Her eyes looked sharp and blurred at the same time. She didn’t have her glasses on.

She rushed over to Annette’s bed. Her face had red and white patches and there were beads of perspiration on her forehead even though it was a cold morning. She pulled Annette up by the hair. Annette yelped and shrank against the wall, wrapping her hands around her head. Her mother grabbed her by one arm and pulled her to her feet. Ria heard the crack of a joint.

‘You come with me, young lady.’

Her mother spat as she spoke and pushed her face forward as she dragged Annette across the room. She dragged her out through the sleepout and into the verandah towards the back door, yelling and spitting as she went.

‘You’ve got some explaining to do, young lady. Don’t you try and get away from me. How dare you? How dare you? I knew you’d been up to no good.’

Ria crouched beside the bed. She had to know what was happening with Annette. She crept through the main part of the house, not the boys’ room, didn’t want to get caught there. She got as far as the kitchen. Sometimes her mother kept the strap there, wedged between two saucepans. It wasn’t there. She slipped into the back verandah. She could hear angry noises and scuffling, and muffled whooping from further up the backyard, behind the laundry.

That was where James was taken sometimes when he got the strap. Ria had seen it happen once. James had been bent over a stool with his pants hanging around his bony ankles. Their father was hitting him with the leather strap usually kept in the laundry, his face screwed up so you could see his teeth. He had his sleeves rolled up and was swinging his arm right back and then bringing the strap down on James’ bare bottom so hard it bounced up again on its own. Their mother was standing watching with her arms folded.

‘Give him more,’ she told their father. ‘Give him more,’ she said again.

Their father gave him more.

Annette had cried and wrung her hands when Ria told her about it, but Ria didn’t cry. Something hard and cold settled in the middle of her body and her head throbbed.

‘I wish I could make them stop,’ she had said through gritted teeth as she hugged Annette.

Ria padded across the concrete between the house and the laundry as quietly as she could on her bare feet. She slid inside the laundry door and pushed it shut behind her. It was gloomy, but she could just see the loop of rope attached to the wall with the strap hanging from it. It was just a strip of leather, really, folded in the middle and fringed at each end, but Ria shuddered as she stood there. She usually avoided looking at it and had never held it before.

She reached up and gave it a tug. The loop of rope stretched but the strap didn’t move. The fold in the middle caught it. She stood on tiptoes and pushed it upwards and forwards until it was free. As soon as she had it in her hand she slid it up the sleeve of her nightie.

She cracked open the laundry door and peered through the slit. The coast was clear. She made a dash across the concrete. Outside the back door she veered right and then down the blind side of the house. Her nightie soaked up the slush. She was covered in goose bumps and her teeth chattered.

She fumbled with the trapdoor and pulled her treasure case towards her. Wrenching the lid, she shoved the strap under her comics. She closed the case, pushed it back under the house and shut and bolted the trapdoor.

Back on the concrete she could hear Annette crying. ‘It isn’t mine. It isn’t mine.’ Her voice was thick.

‘Then whose is it?’ Ria’s mother yelled. ‘Tell me that. And how do you suppose it got into our rubbish bin? Somebody put it there. If it wasn’t you, who was it? And why would I believe you, anyway? You’re just like the rest. Full of the devil.’

Ria edged up the side of the lavatory until she could see behind the outhouse. Annette was crouched under the clothesline, an arrangement of sagging cords her father had strung between a splintering wooden frame. Her mother was bent over, brandishing something in front of Annette’s face. There was no sign of their father. Perhaps he had already left for work. Maybe it had been a waste of time hiding the strap. Ria looked more closely.

Oh, no. It was a rumpled cigarette packet in her mother’s hand. Margaret’s mother smoked and it was the same green and white coloured packet. Ria didn’t know how the packet had got into their rubbish bin, but it wasn’t Annette’s, she was sure of that. Annette hated the smell of smoke and where would she get the money anyway?

Ria’s mother was pushing the packet into Annette’s face and shaking her so her head jerked backwards and forwards. Annette was choking and spluttering and tears and snot smeared her cheeks.

Ria couldn’t stand any more. She leapt out behind her mother and yanked the back of her dressing gown. ‘It’s not hers.’ She tried to sound stern like an adult, but her voice was a squeak in the top of her head.

Her mother spun around so quickly she nearly fell on top of Ria. ‘And what would you know about it, miss sly breeches?’ She pulled herself upright. ‘Perhaps you need to learn how to mind your own business.’ She pushed her face into Ria’s and jabbed her in the chest.

‘Annette is my business. She’s my sister.’ Ria could hear the wobble in her voice, but she stood up straight with her hands behind her back and looked up at her mother.

‘Is that right, is it, miss know-it-all?’ Ria’s mother had stopped spitting and jabbing. Her face had changed from red and white to white all over. She was standing up very straight and her body quivered as her fists clenched and unclenched. Ria’s own body started to tremble and she very badly needed to go to the toilet. Annette was standing at the other side of her mother with eyes wide and hands up over her mouth.

‘Well, then,’ said Ria’s mother, through closed teeth. ‘Perhaps I will make it your business.’

Her arms shot out, grabbing Ria with one hand and Annette with the other. She let go long enough to grab each girl by the scruff of the neck. She shook them both and then brought their heads together. Crack. Crack. Crack.

‘That might teach you both a lesson,’ she hissed, and shoved them away from her.

They lay where they fell as she stomped away towards the house.

Ria stared at the heavy grey sky through the sagging cords of the clothesline. She put her hand up to the sore spot. Sharp pains darted around her head and black fuzzy spots danced in front of her eyes. She blinked a couple of times but they were still there and the air in front of her shimmered. Her thighs felt cold and sticky. Ugh! She had wet herself.

She rolled on to her side so she could see Annette who was lying on her stomach with her face pressed into a clump of weeds. She reached out and touched Annette’s arm. Annette turned her face towards Ria, bits of dirt and weed clinging to its claggy mask. Ria moved closer and they clung together.

‘Thanks for trying to help me,’ Annette whispered into Ria’s shoulder.

‘Made her worse.’ Ria rolled herself into a sitting position and started picking at bits of weed.

Annette sat up too and wrapped her arms around her knees. ‘I was really scared.’

‘Why doesn’t anyone stop her?’

Annette cocked her head towards Ria and looked at her as if she had said something really weird. ‘I don’t think people do that, Ri. I don’t think they think it’s any of their business what parents do with their children.’

‘Then whose business is it?’ Ria was starting to feel angry and she had to be careful to keep her voice down. ‘She could kill us. Whose business would that be? Why doesn’t Dad do something?’

Again Annette gave Ria that funny look. ‘Where do you get your ideas from Ria?’

‘You sound like Mum now,’ Ria snapped. ‘She’s always saying someone’s a bad influence on me, mostly Margaret. She says Margaret’s a spoilt brat who needs to be taught how to behave properly, and I needn’t think I can bring any of her nonsense into this house. Margaret’s my friend, but that doesn’t mean I think the same as her, and she’s not spoilt. When things are bad around here, I think about stuff, that’s all. Thinking seems to be a sin around here. You’re not supposed to think. You’re just supposed to do as you’re told and not ask any questions.’

Annette looked at her with her mouth open. Ria had jumped to her feet and was pacing up and down under the line. Her head was starting to feel clearer. She rushed on, hardly noticing whether Annette was listening or not. ‘Well, I think that’s wrong. I’ve been reading about Hitler in Germany. He told people to kill Jews and they did. Then they said afterwards they were just following orders. Anyway, you didn’t answer me about Dad.’

‘I don’t know why he doesn’t stick up for us, Ri.’ Annette was rubbing her forehead with her fingers. She probably had a headache. ‘Why don’t you ask him? You know, Auntie Kate said something the other day that made me think plenty of people know what it’s like around here but don’t do anything because they’re scared of Mum too.’ She looked across at Ria who had gone back to pulling and throwing bits of weed.

‘Yeah, well,’ she said, hurling a pebble against the laundry wall. ‘We’re always being told to honour our parents and respect adults. Well, I think that’s dumb if they’re unfair or cowards. Anyway, I will ask Dad. I’ll go up to the tram and meet him tonight.’

Ria scrambled up from the dirt and brushed her hands against each other. She reached down and pulled Annette to her feet. ‘I love you, Annie,’ she said, smiling at her sister. ‘I’m not angry with you. Do you know what I’m going to do when I grow up, Annie? I’m going to stop people hurting kids, and if kids do get hurt, I’m going to help them get better.’

‘You and your big ideas,’ said Annette, brushing grass and dirt from the back of Ria’s nightdress. ‘I just want to have my own kids and be kind to them.’

The two sisters crept back into the house. Ria could sense her mother was not there. She had probably left for church. She hadn’t come to rouse them along. Ria went into the bathroom to clean herself up, then back to the bedroom to get dressed. She had to rummage in the drawers to find anything of hers. The three girls shared a chest of drawers, and instead of having one drawer each, which Ria would have liked, they had one drawer for underwear and nighties, one for jumpers and tops and the third for everything else. The things she found to put on had holes and missing buttons, but it didn’t matter; she didn’t care. She took her nightdress and underpants out to the laundry, ran some cold water into the trough and dropped the dirty things into it. She rubbed and scrubbed, wrung, rinsed and wrung again until the water ran clear.

She felt wrung out herself and the smell of fear and urine still hovered in her nose and skin.

*    *    *

When Ria had been younger, she had often ridden up to the corner on her red three-wheeler bike to meet her father on his way home from work. She had gotten her bike for Christmas when she was six and had been proud of it. She knew it was an old one her father had done up but that was okay. She kept it clean and polished and draped with potato sacks to protect it from the weather.

After school she would wait until she thought it was nearly time for her father to come home then jump on her bike and pedal as hard as she could up the hill to the corner. As each tram pulled in to the stop, she would watch the people getting off, looking for her father. Sometimes she would have to wait five or six trams before his came. Other times he was already walking down their street before she got to the corner.

When they saw each other he would run the remaining distance. His face would stretch in a wide smile that crinkled his eyes and smoothed his forehead. He was a thin man, sometimes people called him wiry, and when he ran he seemed to flow. He would drop his battered leather case and his rolled up newspaper and swing her up in the air. His brown trilby often fell behind him onto the footpath. Sometimes he tossed it into the air. His brown hair had a golden glow when the sun caught it and the hat made a dent just above his ears. He would hug her and put her down gently on the path, then gather up his things and they would walk home together. Ria would push her bike with the newspaper in the carry basket. After she got too big for the bike, she walked up to the corner instead.

Ria had stopped going up to the corner to meet her father after James died. For the first few days he hadn’t been at work, and then for a while she hadn’t felt like it. When she had gone back to meet him again, he hadn’t seemed pleased to see her. He had hardly bothered to look at her. He didn’t drop his case or hug her and she was too big to be swung in the air. He didn’t seem to care if she was there or not. He had always been quiet, but now he was a different sort of quiet.

Other things were different too. Her father shut himself into the garage now. He had always spent a lot of time in the garage, pottering around, mending things, but he had kept the doors open. He had seemed pleased when Ria went out to be with him and help him.

She had her own wooden box for a seat next to him at the workbench. She sorted nails into jars that were held to the underside of a bench by their lids. Her father had put screws through the lids to keep them in place. He had shown her how to hammer nails and use different sorts of screwdrivers and saws and glues. Her favourite tool was the planer. It made delicious little curls of wood when you worked it over a piece you wanted to smooth. Sometimes her father gave her a piece of wood just so she could use the planer. She saved the curls in a hessian potato sack. She was sure she would find a use for them. Sometimes she helped him to mend shoes. Well, not mend exactly, but do things to them to stop them wearing out so quickly. He would stick on rubber soles and then trim them to fit the shoe. He hammered half-moon shaped metal protectors to the heels and toes. Ria would pass him glue and nails and hammer and he would thank her with a gentle smile.

After James died, Ria’s father didn’t seem to want her in the garage any more. She went out there once and the doors were not fully closed. He was sitting on her wooden box with his head in his hands making snuffling noises. She went up to him and tried to ease his hands from his face to put them around her but he shooshed her away.

She didn’t feel like going out to the garage after that and only went when her mother sent her with a message for her father or to get him for meals. Then she knocked on the door and waited for him to answer before she said what she had come for.

*    *    *

She didn’t know how to behave around her father any more, and she didn’t know what she would say to him about what had happened with Annette and her mother in the back yard. But she watched the clock that day and at five-thirty made her way up the street. She knew she was a bit early but she needed time to think. She walked slowly, hands clasped behind her back, head bent forward. Her palms were sticky and the lump on her head throbbed as she plodded along. She was so busy in her head she almost missed her father as he approached from the tram amongst a group of people.

‘Dad, Dad,’ she called out.

He looked towards her, nodded, and kept moving. He came level with her and kept walking.

‘Dad. Dad.’ She tugged at his sleeve.

He jerked his arm away and shifted his case from one hand to the other so it came between them. ‘Ria,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘Leave me alone. Leave. Me. Alone.’

Ria looked up at the unsmiling face and bared teeth and didn’t feel very brave. ‘But, Dad,’ she said in a voice that sounded whiny. ‘But, Dad, it’s important. I want to ask you something about Mum.’

He stopped for the first time and put down his case. His shoulders sagged and he wiped his hands across his face and through his hair. There were no golden lights any more, just dull brown streaked with grey. He faced her but did not look at her.

‘Ria,’ he said, in a flat voice, ‘if you have questions for your mother, ask her them yourself.’ He picked up his case. ‘I can’t help you,’ he added in a whisper.

Without looking again in Ria’s direction, he proceeded somewhat unsteadily down the street.

Ria stayed where she was and leaned against the fence of the house behind her. She had an empty feeling and was starting to shake. She knew the people who lived in the house and wondered if she could go up to the front door and ask to be let in. She didn’t know what she would say to them, though. They were the Gleesons and sometimes she walked to school with Faye who was in her grade, but they weren’t allowed to play after school now because Ria’s mother said Mrs Gleeson was a bad influence. Ria thought that was because Mrs Gleeson smoked cigarettes and kept a bottle of Coke in her pantry that tasted funny. Faye and Ria had tried it once when Mrs Gleeson was lying down with a headache but it didn’t taste good, not like real Coke. Ria had been disappointed because she loved Coke. They had tried the cigarettes, too, but had coughed and felt dizzy so hadn’t done that again. Ria hadn’t told her mother, but her mother just seemed to know things like that.

If only she had somewhere to go that wasn’t her house. She wished she could go to Margaret’s, but it was too late. It was nearly dark. Margaret’s family had just got a television, and the kids were allowed to watch it every day for an hour before tea. They took turns deciding what they would watch. Ria had seen television, but only in shop windows, so you couldn’t hear anything. During the holidays she might get to stay at Margaret’s one night. Maybe they would be allowed to stay up late and watch a film on television.

She couldn’t stay where she was now, though. She waited until she saw her father turn into their driveway and then plodded slowly home, feeling heavy and very tired. She watched her feet as she put one in front of the other down the uneven footpath. She felt as if she was wading through treacle and the asphalt seemed to have the gluey feeling it usually had only on very hot days.

Chapter 12

Ria stumbled down the sideway to her secret place and slumped against the wall, not even bothering to get out her suitcase. She would rest there until someone called her in to tea; if they did. It was a bit hard to know what to expect. Sometimes they just had bread and jam now. The jam was homemade and was nice when it was fresh but got tough when it was old and a layer of mould formed on the top. They were supposed to scrape that off and use the rest of the jam. Sometimes, if there was no one around, Ria scraped the whole lot onto newspaper and pushed it right down to the bottom of the rubbish bin. She knew she would be in trouble if she was caught. Her mother would say it was sinful waste and she should be grateful to have jam of any sort.

Ria helped to make the jam during the summer holidays – plum, usually, from their own trees, and maybe apricot if someone gave them the fruit. Sometimes they made green tomato pickles as well. She loved green tomato pickles. Her job was to stir the enormous dented aluminium pot with the wooden spoon to make sure the jam or pickles didn’t stick. She liked the way the shrunken skins slid over the spoon when you lifted it. She liked chasing the marbles around the bottom of the pan. Annette sometimes stirred the pot as well but she didn’t like it much because it got so hot in the kitchen.

When the jam or pickles were ready it was Ria’s job to fill the jars that were recycled each year. The jars were covered with greaseproof and then brown paper. Ria cut the pieces of each sort of paper to fit each jar and stuck them on with handmade floury paste. Once the paste was dry, she wiped the jars. Her father brought the ladder inside and she handed the jars up to him to stack in the top cupboards. Her mother kept one jar of jam aside for the priests and one for the nuns.

Ria wondered if they would make anything these Christmas holidays. Annette had told her they wouldn’t be having Christmas this year. Their mother had said they were not to whinge but should offer it up as a sacrifice for the repose of James soul. They would go to midnight mass and pray for him.

They had never had much for Christmas, but there had always been a tree their father had gone out to the country to cut down and the kids had decorated with things they made themselves. Some of the decorations were pretty squashed after years of being stored, but the colours were bright and made the dining room less brown. They had all got something wrapped under the tree, even if it was something they needed for school like a shirt or a pencil case. Ria’s mother had sometimes made a Christmas cake or a pudding and Ria had helped to cut up fruit and nuts and sift flour. She loved the smell of fruit cake baking in the oven. Ria didn’t think James would want them to give it up for the repose of his soul. But that was the way it would be. Her mother had said.

Anyway, so much for getting help from her father. Didn’t he care about her? Didn’t he care about any of them? He didn’t seem to, and yet he used to be different. Ria could remember happy times with her father. He had taught her to swim, holding her gently in the water with a hand under her tummy while she learnt to move her arms and kick her legs and turn her head to breathe.

One of the things in her treasure case was a photo of her lying on her stomach in the shallows of the beach at low tide. The photo did not say where it was, but it did say she was three years old. It was the only photo she had from when she was little. She had asked her mother if she could have it. She had wrapped it carefully in a piece of tissue paper from a loaf of bread and then put it between the pages of The Naughtiest Girl in School. That’s where it was now, behind her in the suitcase.

She got it out and looked at it, trying to remember what it had been like to be that little. She is held upright by her stubby arms and one leg is kicked out and to the side. She is pretending to swim. The water covers her hands and part of her arms. One shoulder strap has fallen down around her elbow. Her face has a big smile that puffs up her cheeks and squints her eyes. Her wet hair hangs in ringlets around her face. One clump of curls reaches her nose, just like the little girl with the curl down the middle of her forehead.

Her father would have taken the photo and she would have been smiling at him. He must have loved her, then, mustn’t he? He sometimes used to take them to the beach when she was little. Ria won a sandcastle competition once and was very proud. She got a certificate for it that was in the case behind her as well. It was fun going to the beach. Her mother never came. She said she was too busy, but Ria thought she was glad to see the back of them for a while.

‘I’ll be glad to see the back of you,’ she would say at the end of the holidays when it was time to go back to school. Ria winced when she said that. She and Annette spent a lot of time during the holidays doing jobs around the house and she wished her mother would be pleased to have them home.

There were some jobs Ria hated doing, like getting the cobwebs from the ceilings, but there were others she didn’t mind. She liked cleaning the silver and seeing it change from dull and streaky to bright and shiny. She didn’t know why they bothered cleaning it though. It was just put back in the cupboard again until the next time it got cleaned. There were sugar bowls and milk jugs and teapots and cake dishes her parents had been given for wedding presents. Some of them had delicately carved feet and handles that had to be cleaned with a toothbrush. Ria would spread newspaper on the table and line up the tarnished pieces on one side and clean them carefully one by one. She lined up the polished pieces on the other side and liked to look from clean side to dirty side.

Another thing she liked to clean was the camphor wood chest. It was used to store winter jumpers and coats in the summer so moths would not eat them. Ria’s father had brought it back from Nauru when he had been there during the war. It was kept in the hallway and Ria thought it was beautiful. It was a soft golden colour and was carved all over with sailing ships and trees and houses and mountains. Some of the sailing ships had people on them. The carving was deep in the thick lid and sides and collected lots of dust. Ria loved to see all the crevices clean and a glow of polish on the rich wood. When she walked through the hallway she looked to make sure no one had left any mess on the chest. If they had she would sometimes put it away or else just dump it on the floor.

She wondered if she would ever go to the beach with her father again. She didn’t think so. She didn’t think he would want to any more, and it probably wouldn’t be fun anyway. It was like he had built a wall around himself and if you knocked he might not even notice. He had noticed her today, but not much until she had pulled his sleeve, and then he had been really annoyed.

*    *    *

On the last day of the school year, and the last day of primary school, Ria trudged down the street, listing to one side with the weight of her school case. It had been prize-giving day and she had two prizes. Margaret’s mother had been there and even though Margaret had not won any prizes they had both clapped for Ria. She got a World Atlas for coming top of the school and Pride and Prejudice for the English prize. She didn’t know what she would do with the World Atlas but she would take Pride and Prejudice down the sideway with her. The summer holidays were a good time for reading. The book was beautiful. It had a hard cover of soft green, like new grass only lighter and gold lettering on the front and spine. She liked the feel of it in her hand. She had already had a quick look and it seemed interesting.

She would have to sort out her case down the sideway. It was pretty messy and there must be lots of stuff she should throw out now she was going to secondary school. Some things she would keep, of course, but the old buttons and string and ribbons could go. She didn’t even know why she had collected them in the first place.

Trudging along and thinking about her case, she suddenly remembered the strap. She stopped in the middle of the footpath, feeling cold all over, despite the sun beating down on the back of her neck. She had forgotten about the strap, hidden at the bottom of her case. She hadn’t had time to go down the sideway for weeks, not since the day she had hidden it. She had been too busy studying for the tests at school. What if her parents had been looking for it? Nothing had been said. At least no one had been hit with it in that time. Her thoughts darted everywhere. She put her hand up to her head trying to think clearly.

So what if they had been looking for it? They didn’t know where it was, and they didn’t know she had taken it. It was funny her mother hadn’t demanded to know, though, or accused someone of taking it. Something like that would normally have caused a rumpus that would last for days with accusations and denials and confessions and beltings.

Everything had been strange since James died. Well, the fact he was dead was the strangest part. Ria didn’t remember all the time, and kept expecting to see him or imagining she heard his voice or that she could smell the particular oaty smell of him. Sometimes she ached all over when she thought of him being squashed by the truck. He couldn’t really have been squashed because she had seen him in his coffin, but that’s what Annette had said and that’s what she remembered. Sometimes when she woke up her legs and arms were aching and her pillow was wet.

At first the house had seemed to vibrate and Ria had jumped every time her mother had walked into a room. But lately it was more like the air was thick and heavy and weighing everyone down and making them invisible to each other. Everything seemed to happen very slowly. It was like being outside on a muggy summer’s day when the sky went dark and rumbled just before a thunderstorm.

Her mother still read letters at dinnertime from relatives who were priests or nuns. She read with her mouth full. The words came out garbled through lumps of food that mixed with strings of saliva as she opened and shut her mouth. Even on those nights when they only had bread and jam they had to sit down at the table and listen. If there were no letters she read pieces out of the latest Catholic magazine. They were about eternal souls and the workings of the devil and guardian angels and having pure thoughts and keeping from temptation. Ria sometimes wondered if her mother wrote the letters and articles herself.

After dinner they still trooped into the dining room for the family rosary. The rosary, with its trimmings, was more elaborate than the dinners. Even if you only said one set of mysteries, each set had five decades, and each decade had the Our Father at the beginning and other things at the end and ten Hail Mary’s and Holy Mary’s in between. They always said the sorrowful mysteries, sometimes the glorious or the joyful ones as well. It took ages and was boring. Ria would rather read a book.

You had to kneel up to say the rosary. You weren’t supposed to slouch against a chair, unless you had dispensation for being sick. Therese was allowed to sit in a chair, but anyone else had to show something, like a red throat or a fever. The unpolished wooden floor was cold and hard on bare knees. There wasn’t much kneeling room. You had to speak up and not mumble. If you spoke too fast you had to start again, and then it took even longer. Ria promised herself that as soon as she left home she would never say another rosary as long as she lived. It seemed stupid saying the same thing over and over again.

She was nearly home and knew what she had to do. She walked quietly up the driveway, not banging the gates as she sometimes did. She crept around the back of the house and down the sideway, dropping her school case as she fell onto her hands and knees in front of the trapdoor. She pulled the handle and the door dug into the soil, stuck half way. It had tipped at a downward angle. Its top hinge was hanging loose. It hadn’t been like that before.

She lifted and eased the door so it was wide enough to pull out her case. The lid of the case was open and it was back to front. Everything was messed up. She pulled frantically at the case and wrenched it past the drunken trapdoor. She stared at the tumbled contents and then dug her hands in and scrabbled through them. Books and comics piled into the lid, the rest of the contents spread around her. She shook and rattled, opened and turned, mindless of torn covers, dust and weeds.

The strap was gone.

A piece of folded paper was stuck to the bottom of the case with sticky tape. She reached in with trembling hands and pulled the note towards her. She sat with it clutched in cold fingers, feeling her heart thump around her chest and up into her neck. Her breathing stopped as she fumbled with the note.

‘You’ll pay for your sins,’ the spidery handwriting promised.

PART THREE

2000 – 2001

Admittedly, it is difficult not to bleed when injured. Diligent practice, however, will permit the experienced swimmer to sustain a serious laceration without bleeding and without even exhibiting any loss of composure.

Voltaire Cousteau

How to Swim with Sharks

Chapter 13

Was she still paying, Ria wondered, with the wounds from The Portal still raw and the situation unresolved? Paying for what? For hiding a strap from her parents? For showing an office memo to a client who needed to provide input to its response? On the face of it, these things were trivial, but the first had seriously offended her mother, and the second had seriously offended Lena.

It was seven months since the blow-up over the memo, and forty years since the death of her brother, James. Seven long months and forty short years that had converged in a space outside time on that black Friday night following the hearing at the Industrial Relations Commission. Ria no longer occupied that primitive blur; angry figures no longer faded and shifted between each other, but she knew she had work ahead. She had thought she had sorted her childhood through years of reading and reflection and study and counselling, as well as long conversations with Annette and John. She had clearly been wrong. There was at least a further installment ahead of her.

‘Do you think we’ll still be dealing with our childhood when we’re in our eighties, Ri?’ Annette asked one day. ‘This doing-over of yours has brought up stuff for you, and it’s also sent me down memory lane. Horror lane, I should say.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Not now. Not more than we have already. I’m okay, and happy enough to get on with everyday life at the moment.’

‘I wish I could do that.’

‘Give yourself time.’

*    *    *

Ria was shuffling a document around the table in front of her, aware of lolly-pink hibiscus through the windows on her right and bright sunshine through those on her left. She got up to let down the blinds. It was high summer, and the fourth day of one of those Melbourne heatwaves that always come as a shock.

Her family needed no further aggravation. She supposed they were in the throes of post-crisis crisis. Everyone, including herself, seemed thin-skinned and short-fused. Even Cady had lost her good-natured ease, and Boofy spent a lot of time huddled in her safe place under Ria’s dressing table.

What a mess, thought Ria; the present ramshackle, the past unfinished, and the future hope-less. She had run herself ragged in a frantic battle only to land up exactly where she had started.

She found it hard to believe she had been off work for so long. When her general practitioner had first told her to go home and rest for a few days, she had thought it an overreaction. It was only later when her body seemed to go into shutdown she realised the toll the dispute was taking. Tests and investigations had, however, provided no medical explanation for her depleted state.

‘I think it’s stress,’ the gastroenterologist had announced apologetically during an appointment a few weeks after the industrial relations hearing. ‘And, I think that’s your department.’

Right, acknowledged Ria, and went home to make a recovery list, putting into practice some of what she knew about anxiety management, relaxation training, healthy eating, and herbal remedies. She drew up an exercise schedule including walking the dog, gym program and, of course, swimming. She would no longer look to medical practitioners to fix her, but would take responsibility for fixing herself. Once she was stronger, she might be better placed to think about the future. She needed to pick up the reins again. Apart from anything else, she wanted to contribute financially. So far, sickness insurance had paid seventy-five percent of her salary, but Ria was keen to move on from that arrangement.

She had been putting her recovery program into practice for almost three months now and could indeed feel the benefits. At this stage, though, she could still not imagine caring about anything again, beyond the people closest to her, and a life without caring seemed bleak indeed. A way to go, she acknowledged to herself.

*    *    *

The document she had been pushing around the table was now sticking to her fingers. It was her letter of resignation, although quite different from the one she had drafted seven months previously, when she had been prepared to make concessions to Lena’s position. The executive director might have been “doing her job”, her top-down management style might have been passed over by many, including the board, apprehension about perceived threats to her power might be understandable, at a stretch, but the relentless brutality of the attack was not on. Indeed, in the executive director’s own terms, it was surely “unprofessional”, although Ria refrained from making that point.

She picked up the letter and folded it slowly to fit the envelope. She put it down and unfolded it, staring towards the print as it jumped before her eyes.

‘In order to work at The Portal,’ she had written, ‘or any other organisation, I would need to trust its managerial practices. I have no such trust in the current regime, which endorses behaviour that may be consistent with prevailing corporate mores but fits poorly with the espoused mission of a supposedly Christian organisation. Indeed, I doubt any private enterprise would tolerate the amount of time, money, and energy expended on this dispute.’

She gave the letter a shove across the table, curbing the urge to rip it to shreds and stamp dramatically on the pieces. It was she, after all, who would clear up the mess. In truth, she thought, temper yielding to gloom, it is steeped in blood as well as sweat and tears, and not just hers. The dis-ease had spread throughout The Portal as well as spilling onto families and friends of those directly involved. In resigning from her job, Ria was resigning herself to the hopelessness of finding an appropriate forum to address the issues with Lena and now, more generally, with the management and board of The Portal as well as its church auspicing body.

*    *    *

The board had finally provided a polite but deaf and blinkered hearing of Ria’s formal grievance. She met with four sober representatives on a humid and blustery afternoon ten days before Christmas, two months after the industrial relations hearing. The meeting took place a few kilometres from where Ria lived; still a church venue, but not The Portal, and Ria was grateful for that small mercy.

To get to the venue, Ria had to drive through the intersection that turned towards The Portal. She often drove through this intersection because the artery connected her home to the northern suburbs. As she did so, she also often found herself fantasising about what she would do if Lena stepped onto the road just as Ria approached the lights. Would she brake, or would she jam her foot on the accelerator? She imagined doing the latter. The fantasy was vivid, and shockingly satisfying, as such fantasies can be, needing to take no account of Ria’s revulsion against hitting anything; an insect splattering on the windscreen was enough to make her flinch.

Clearing her head of such distractions, she greeted the four men, presented her summary of the situation, and offered her file of documents, now ten centimetres thick. The worthy men nodded and stroked stubble and thanked her solemnly, showing no indication of grasping the issues, no interest in her file, and no need to ask questions. They spoke with the polish of privilege and the ignorance of power sustainable only by the powerful.

‘We will give this matter our careful consideration and notify you of our conclusion,’ said the Chair in the pompous tone Ria remembered from the earlier stages of the dispute, when he had refused her request for a grievance hearing because he had already been “briefed” by Lena. And how will you reach your conclusion, Ria wondered, but didn’t bother to ask. They were probably well meaning men, but either out of their element or unconcerned about the executive director’s practices.

‘You did well in there, but I don’t think they heard you,’ was Warren’s summary of the meeting. Ria felt too demoralised to comment, but thanked him for being there and returned to her car, kicking stones along the footpath as she went.

The subsequent decision to continue to support Lena was made at a full board meeting at which Lena had presumably been present but to which Ria was not invited.

‘The Portal,’ wrote the Chair, in a manner surely inspired by Lena, ‘remains open to receiving your resignation, your return to work, or a settlement and release agreement.’ The letter concluded full circle. ‘The fact that you chose to release that memorandum to a client without consulting with your manager continues to be considered by us as a breach of your employment contract.’

Ria no longer held illusions about changing that stuck record, but nor was she prepared to let the last word rest with The Portal. ‘I have studied my contract carefully,’ she wrote in her letter of resignation. ‘I find no term in it, or implied in it, requiring me, as an independent professional, to consult with my manager, or the executive director, before releasing to a client a memorandum requiring me to make certain things clear to that client in the terms contained in that memorandum.’ That sounded pedantic enough to match the tone of letters from The Portal, and was indeed a paraphrase of comments from a lawyer Ria had consulted.

The board’s protection of Lena was predictable. Its members had appointed her. Ria was nonetheless dismayed that no member had the integrity to stand against her tyranny. Lena had abolished the position of staff representative on the board, but some staff had made informal contact with members they knew, expressing their concerns about the general situation, and giving specific examples of affected staff who were willing to be named. Ria, of course, had been willing, as had Jenny and Simon, and possibly others as well. Ignorance on the part of the board was therefore not an excuse. Self-interested denial seemed a better assessment.

*    *    *

Having hit the brick wall of the board, Ria pursued the possibility of a meeting with representatives of the church auspicing body. She was surprised by their positive and speedy response, offering a meeting the day after her call and two days after her meeting with the board. They must know something, she thought, and was encouraged to persevere.

She contacted Simon and Jenny who were also keen to make the most of the opportunity. They had both now resigned from The Portal, having sustained their own onslaughts about incompetent, unprofessional, and unethical behaviour. The allegations made against them were even less substantial than the original one against Ria, and could have been worked through given the goodwill to do so. Simon and Jenny were wise enough, however, to submit their resignations before hostilities escalated. They were nonetheless angry, and wanted a halt to the demoralisation of staff who were still managing to hang on.

‘We’ll probably just be dismissed as disgruntled ex-employees with an axe to grind,’ grumbled Jenny, uncharacteristically despondent, as they made their way through the city to the church administrative offices. ‘Or should that be “axes”?’ she wondered, tapping a forefinger against her front teeth.

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Ria, ambiguously. ‘At least it’s an opportunity to have our say.’ She put a hand to her hair, but pulled it away again. She didn’t want to arrive dishevelled; not that she expected anyone at today’s meeting to appreciate her style, or ask her where she had her hair cut. That did occasionally happen, and sometimes it was complete strangers who stopped her in the street. She was always absurdly chuffed, and never failed to tell John, who never failed to be unimpressed.

‘In fact,’ she mused, ‘I’m not an ex-employee – yet. Perhaps they want to persuade me to go back to work.’ She cocked her head at her colleagues in a way Cady would definitely call dumb.

‘Yeah. Right.’ They both grimaced. ‘Anyway,’ said Simon, ‘you’ve had plenty of chances to return to work, but you’re too ungrateful, uncooperative, and difficult to appreciate them.’ He took several long strides up the hill, ignoring Ria’s squawk of protest.

They were ushered into the presence of two men of God who nodded and tutted and shook their heads for several hours, and then denied they had any power to intervene. It’s a worry, they said, but their hands were tied. All the agencies under their auspice were autonomous, they said. The executive director was accountable to the board, they said.

‘The board does not, however, appear to be doing anything to make the executive director accountable. That’s why we’re here,’ Ria pointed out. ‘And you have, in fact, recently intervened in another agency where the situation made headlines in the daily papers,’ she challenged.

‘Intense public scrutiny … extremely important matters at stake,’ they said.

‘I see.’ Ria’s body was stiff with anger. ‘What you’re saying, in other words, is that appearances and money matter, but people don’t.’

The situation she referred to had involved hundreds of thousands of dollars and was front-page news for several days. Reading between the lines, Ria could also see the trail of human wreckage left in its wake. She glared at the two mild-mannered men, feeling no desire to conciliate.

‘The Church will not back away,’ they said. ‘Trust us. Trust us,’ they said.

Ria stared in disbelief.

One man was red in the face and shuffled in his seat. The other blinked and smiled in a manner presumably meant to be reassuring. Ria preferred the wriggler. His discomfort seemed more honest.

‘Why would we do that?’ Simon wondered, almost to himself.

One by one their colleagues were still leaving The Portal. Of the seven-member team who had started out with such commitment and passion to develop client partnership, only two remained, and they intended to get out as soon as they reasonably could. Of the overall staff of the agency, over seventy percent had gone, many with a push, in the months since Lena’s arrival.

‘How would you explain that?’ Jenny asked, green eyes flashing.

‘We’ll look into it,’ the pastors promised, faces inscrutable. ‘Blessings of the season,’ they beamed, closing the door for the last time.

*    *    *

‘We’d better not hold our breaths waiting for them to do anything,’ grumbled Simon, as they walked back through the city to catch a tram. They were travelling together to the swimming pool around the corner from Ria’s house. When they had organised to go to the meeting, they had also agreed to go for a swim afterwards.

‘I’m glad we had that good idea,’ said Ria glumly.

‘Think of all those toxic vibes going into the water.’ Simon sounded pretty sore. ‘Make you tear your hair – if you had any.’

They were quiet during the trip but, once at the pool, Jenny chivvied them along with some semblance of her usual optimism. ‘We’ll be okay and so will everyone else,’ she said bracingly, as she and Ria left the changing rooms and made their way towards Simon, already standing at the pool’s edge.

‘Is that your kick board, Simon?’ Ria asked, picking up a blue board from the lane Simon was about to enter.

‘Nah, haven’t demoted myself to that yet.’ Simon jumped into the pool and danced around, arms wrapped around his torso.

‘You have to have muscles to use a kick board,’ Ria countered, propping on the edge and flexing her biceps and calves. ‘Ouch, it’s too cold.’ She pulled her toes out of the water.

‘You’ll be right after a couple of laps.’

‘I’ll just get colder.’

‘Stop being such a woos.’

‘Thanks for that demonstration of empathy, dear colleague. And, of course, they wouldn’t be goosebumps I can see on your arms, would they?’

‘You’ll have to speak up, Ria. You know I can’t hear you when you mumble.’ Simon peered at Ria, hands cupped theatrically behind his ears.

‘I said …’ Ria shouted.

‘Never mind. Race you to the other end.’

‘Go.’

They were all good swimmers. Jenny had grown up in a bayside suburb, Simon had lifeguard training, and Ria, well Ria was proud of her style, which she liked to hear described as more of a glide through the water than a swim. The three of them were also what Ria called “serious swimmers”, steadily covering the laps for the next forty minutes. Not like some of the people she had become friendly with over the years, particularly one trio who could stand around chatting about football, the stock market, or their golf games for twenty or more of Ria’s laps. She teased them about being slack but, in truth, was a little envious. No matter how warm the water, she needed to keep moving or her extremities became numb.

‘That feels so good,’ said Jenny, her big smile lighting up her round face. She was dressed after her shower, and was towelling her hair – squeaky clean, bright red, with a tendency to frizz when left to its own devices. ‘How did you find the water temperature after all, Ria?’

‘Not too bad. I would’ve liked a couple of extra degrees, but didn’t get cold through to the core like was happening a while back. I’m getting stronger.’

‘That’s my prayers.’ Jenny’s expression was serious. She didn’t advertise her spirituality, but was deeply Christian in a non-establishment way.

‘You’re a treasure.’ Ria privately thought it was her recovery program making the difference, but felt nurtured by Jenny’s prayers, and was not about to diminish them with cynical comments.

As they went their separate ways, the burden of The Portal was fractionally lighter, although not forgotten. Never forgotten, thought Ria, but perhaps it’ll morph into something more constructive given enough time. She felt sad for her colleagues who had given so much to their work and been treated abysmally in return. She thought about the staff she had known and respected over her time at The Portal, so many of them no longer there, most creeping away with tail between legs and morale in tatters.

*    *    *

‘Such a turnover of staff,’ she later wrote, in a grudgingly invited submission to a review by the church auspicing body of its relationship to its agencies, ‘demands an explanation that goes beyond complacency about change over time, or dismissal of large numbers of professionals as troublemakers, unethical, incompetent, resistant to change, or “not team players”. It requires attention at an organisational level, rather than approaching each example of conflict as an individual case.’

Blah, blah, blah, she thought, but nonetheless made the most of the chance to bring the situation to broader attention. Likewise, when the Member of Parliament for the electorate containing The Portal, who was also Shadow Minister for community services, expressed interest in the situation, Ria grasped the possibility of a meeting. But, then, the Shadow Minister became Minister when her party unexpectedly won power at the State election. Ria continued to make calls. The Minister was away. The Minister was in a meeting. The Minister was busy. The Minister would get back to her. The Minister, in fact, presumably had other pressing agendas, of which forging positive relations with the services within her portfolio would be one. The meeting never happened. Ria’s cynicism deepened.

A legal advisory body encouraged Ria to put a case of constructive dismissal before the Industrial Relations Commission. Constructive dismissal, they explained, refers to the situation in which a person leaves a workplace because the conditions are intolerable and there is no viable option. Ria considered the possibility, but rejected it, partly on the basis of her previous experience at the Commission and partly because she was exhausted. Also, by this stage, it seemed pointless to pursue her individual case; something analogous to a class action was required, and Ria did not know if such a thing was possible or how to find out.

Likewise, she ruled a line through the possibility of re-contacting the journalist who had been caught in the original situation through his hapless error of connecting The Portal with advocacy for safe injecting facilities. If only he had known how unlikely it was the organisation would stand against the government – its source of funding – to advocate for its clients.

Stop it, Ria warned herself. Such thinking changes nothing, and just creates an energy drain.

It had been a draining seven months. She felt like something left over from a war zone. And to what end? Lena was still executive director of The Portal, still presumably enjoying the unquestioning confidence of the board. There was nowhere left to turn. Ria felt incompetent and powerless. Distant echoes of those feelings surged to meet the present.

*    *    *

She picked up the envelope containing her resignation and heaved herself to her feet. She called the dog who came lumbering towards her, panting as if she had just been exercising.

‘You look like something left over, too, don’t you, Boofy?’ She smoothed the silky fur between the dog’s ears and clipped on her lead. Boofy looked at her and lay down with her head on her paws.

‘What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you don’t want to go for a walk?’ Ria knelt on the floor in front of the dog and held her face between both hands. Boofy shuffled and nuzzled closer and looked at Ria through speaking eyes.

‘You’re not sick, are you, Boofy? Please don’t be sick.’ The dog moved her tongue in a licking motion and then let it loll against her sagging jaw.

Once they were out on the street, the dog perked up. Perhaps she just needed to get out, Ria thought, and unclipped her lead so she could roam, sniff, and communicate in the way dogs do, leg cocked, even female ones, at least of the Boofy type. She enjoyed her walks so much better off the lead, was no trouble, and the local council did not zealously enforce its leash laws. She had completed four grades of dog school; came when called, heeled when required, waited patiently outside shops, stayed off the road, even when her ball disappeared onto it, and refrained from stealing food, at least under the eyes of watchful humans.

A paragon of dogs, mused Ria smugly, as she pushed her letter into the mail box and turned the corner to continue around the block, dog padding behind her. Half way down the street, Ria turned to check Boofy’s whereabouts.

What? Was that her paragon of dogs, standing in the gutter, off the road, scoffing something indiscernible from Ria’s distance?

‘Boofy,’ she bellowed, ‘off the road.’

The dog kept her head bent.

Ria sprinted back. ‘Someone calling me?’ the dog’s expression read, ears pricked, as she trotted towards Ria, still swallowing the last of her scavengings and licking her lips.

‘Sit,’ Ria commanded. The dog sat. She knew she was in trouble, and Ria suspected she knew why, but also how to minimise the fallout. The expression on Boofy’s face and in her posture could only be described as abject penitence, although Connor would say Ria was anthropomorphising – again.

‘You know you’re not allowed on the road, don’t you Boofy? Under any circumstances.’ Ria resisted the urge to bend and pat the woebegone animal, noticing a car whizz perilously close to the gutter the dog had just vacated.

On the rest of the walk home, Boofy demonstrated everything she knew about being a well-trained dog. She walked sedately beside Ria, close but not brushing, nose just in front of Ria’s knees, facing straight ahead. When Ria stopped at their gate, the dog sat, paws neatly arranged, looking up for further instructions. Ria bent to pat the furry face and let the dog go to find whoever might be available to provide appropriate comfort.

*    *    *

The next morning Ria woke feeling fractious, a familiar feeling of late, although no more welcome on that basis. Everything about her life seemed shambolic, and her attempts to restore order by starting on the domestic front were unappreciated by the rest of her household. She found herself fielding endless questions of the “where have you put …” and “what have you done with …” variety that created pinpricks on both sides. She was annoyed by the slack habits her family had got into, leaving messes everywhere, and they were annoyed when their belongings didn’t stay where they dropped them.

The day’s shopping expedition did not, therefore, get off to the best of starts. John had recently started helping Ria with the household shop. It was a good arrangement, in theory, but in practice frequently found them bickering over trivia; Ria having missed a required item when they passed it in an aisle, one of them having to go back for it, John discovering something the kids wanted, like a particular sort of muesli, was ridiculously priced and therefore wanting to cut it from the list, the two of them going off separately to find particular items but coming back with the wrong thing according to the other person, and so on and so on.

Today’s list was a long one. Ria had gone through the cupboards, checking basics like flour, sugar, spices, tinned goods, cleaning, laundry and bathroom items, wiping out shelves in the process. It had been too long since she had done a comprehensive shopping list, and it had given her a ridiculous amount of satisfaction to do so. Pathetic, she grumbled to herself. Welcome to life going nowhere.

‘This is ridiculous,’ John complained when they were part way around the supermarket and the trolley was already laden.

‘Well, we haven’t shopped properly for months. If we do this today, it’ll be easier next time, and we won’t have to be dashing back every few days for something we’ve run out of.’ Ria was trying to be staunch, but could feel herself running out of strength, and wanted nothing better than to have this lot home and put away so she could have a rest.

At the cash register, Ria unpacked the trolley and John repacked it at the other end. Ria looked across to see a couple of dozen eggs perched precariously at the top of a bag.

‘Can you do something about those eggs, John? They don’t look safe to me.’

‘They’ll be right.’ John waved a dismissive hand.

‘I don’t think so.’

John ignored her.

Unpacking the shopping at home, Ria noticed one of the bags had a wet patch seeping through the side. The patch was spreading. She peered at the patch and then, with sinking heart, into the bag. A dozen eggs had tipped over; several had fallen out and were spreading their innards over and through the jars and packets below them.

‘Oh, no.’ Ria could feel the end of her tether slipping through her fingers.

‘John,’ she shrieked.

John came running and bent to where Ria was crouched over the bags on the kitchen floor.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said, concern in his voice. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m okay, but look at this mess. I told you about those eggs. But no, they were going to be fine. Well, they weren’t fine. As you can see.’

‘I can see that. But, so what? It’s only a dozen eggs.’

‘Only a dozen eggs! What about the mess?’ Ria’s voice was getting shriller. She could hear it, and hated the sound, but was on a roll.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ John turned to leave.

‘Doesn’t matter to whom? It matters to me, but I don’t suppose that matters. Who do you think’s going to clean it up? Not you, that’s for sure. You know what? I’m sick of messes, and I’m sick of people making them and me being the one to clean them up.’

John had a glazed look, and Ria knew he had switched off.

‘I don’t know why I bother talking to you,’ she barged on, ignoring the voice in her head telling her to let it go. ‘The way you respond to this sort of thing is so mega-unhelpful.’

By now Connor and Cady had come to the kitchen, Boofy hovering uncertainly behind them. John disappeared down the stairs towards the back of the house.

‘Chill, Mum,’ said Connor, reaching out to give her a hug. ‘It really doesn’t matter, and you’re not being fair or reasonable.’

Ria rounded on him. ‘I’ll try saying that to you next time you’re upset about something.’

Connor’s face stiffened but he said no more.

‘You’re not being fair, mummy, and now you’re being mean to Connor as well,’ Cady barrelled in, looking at her mother with a mixture of surprise and dismay.

‘Is that right? Well, thank you for all your insights. You know what? Given that I’m so unfair and unreasonable and mean, perhaps I should take up one of the offers from friends to go stay with them for a while.’

‘No one else would put up with you.’ Connor’s wise eyes spoke volumes through his young face, telling Ria in no uncertain terms she needed to grow up. Her insides shrivelled under his steady gaze.

Connor and Cady left the kitchen, leaving Ria to cry into her bag of eggy groceries. Boofy crept up beside her and licked tears from her face. They both crumpled onto the floor and lay there until Ria summoned the strength to finish unpacking the shopping and clean up the sticky mess. She crawled into bed, feeling gutted, and stared into the abyss of desolate thoughts.

*    *    *

‘Ouch!’ was Annette’s immediate response on the phone later that day. ‘But, you know, Ri, Connor might be right. John and the kids have been brilliant as far as I can tell, and don’t deserve the backlash.’

‘You’re telling me I’m off the wall?’

‘Sorry, Ri, but you know what you’re like. When the world seems to be tilting the wrong way, you try to steady it by getting your house in order, literally in your case. You’ve been like that as long as I can remember, but is it worth it if it means making life miserable for the people most important to you?’

‘Messes make me miserable. Doesn’t that matter?’

‘It matters that you’re miserable.’

‘It sounds like you think I’m making a fuss over nothing.’ Ria was responding to the unspoken “but” at the end of Annette’s comment, and could feel the moral high ground teetering under her feet.

‘Not exactly, but if you weren’t so worn down you’d probably deal with it differently. Wouldn’t you?’

‘I guess so, but I am worn down, so it’s hard to get a handle on how I’d behave if I wasn’t. Oh, Annie, I don’t even know if I’m making sense … and, I’m so tired … of the struggle.’

‘I know.’ Annette said gently, and Ria could almost see her nodding slowly. ‘And it makes me sad, and mad, not be able to do anything.’

‘You do heaps, Annie.’ Ria was feeling better for just being able to admit how feeble she was feeling. ‘So, what am I supposed to do now, I wonder?’

‘About the situation at home? You’re asking me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it sounds like you need to kick back. Can you go for a swim, or a long walk with the dog, get yourself a coffee, give yourself a chance to get things in perspective?’

‘Sounds like a plan. I’ll go for a walk, try to find a brain, come back and cook a nice dinner.’

‘Accompanied by an apology?’

‘Humble pie, speciality of the house, just for yours truly.’

‘Good girl. I know you can do it. And while you’re at it, perhaps it’s a good time to think about organising some counselling?’

‘I’ve already done that; just waiting for an appointment. The person I want to see has a waiting list so it might be a little while. I’ll try not to commit too many axe murders in the meantime.’

‘I know that’s not the slightest bit likely. It’s getting back to yourself that’s important.’

*    *    *

Dinner was accompanied by conversation of the sort better suited to business acquaintances. Ria braced herself.

‘Before anyone heads off to whatever, I’ve got something to say. I’ve been talking to Annie, and she’s made me see I’ve been a pain in the neck lately, and that I particularly need to apologise for this morning’s outburst. So, I’m sorry, John, and Connor, and Cady.’

Ria’s voice broke and she bent her head over the remains of her tandoori wrap. When she looked up she was surrounded by her family, who brought her into what they called a four-hug. Then she did break up, and so did everyone else. They cried in each other’s arms and had another big hug, opening the circle to include Boofy.

‘I’ve also decided to get help straightening out the muddle in my head, so hopefully I’ll soon be back to what passes for normal.’

‘We love you, mummy.’ Connor grabbed her hand.

‘I know m’darling.’ She looked around her family. ‘And I love you all. Anyone for sweets? Jam roly poly. I know it’s summer, but what the heck.’

‘Have we got proper ice cream, ma?’

‘Double chocolate chip is all. Doesn’t exactly go with the recipe, but…’

Cady gave her mother a high-five.

Chapter 14

‘I don’t think she’s well,’ Ria was confiding to John a couple of weeks later. ‘I’m not sure she’s been well since we took her down to the creek at the end of last month, maybe even before that, although I’ve tried to pass it off in various ways, and sometimes she seems fine so I convince myself I’m worrying about nothing.’ She stroked the dog’s ears and cupped her face, searching the velvet brown eyes for clues to her fears. ‘She certainly seemed fine then, rushing up and down, in and out of the water after the ball Cady was throwing.’

Ria was rushing on herself now. ‘She really enjoyed herself, but afterwards she was listless and limping for a couple of days. I thought she’d sprained something and didn’t worry too much. She’s done that before and been okay. She seemed okay after a while this time.’

The dog, who was lying across Ria’s feet, turned her head towards John, thumped her tail twice, and sighed as she sank back down.

‘But recently, especially this last week, she doesn’t seem much interested in going for walks, and she’s slow when she does come. A couple of times I’ve got to the corner and looked back and she’s been standing at the gate staring down the street after me.’ Ria knew she was babbling, but suddenly felt urgent about the dog. She wanted John to soothe her fears. She wanted him to scoff at them. She wanted him to help her act on them.

John hunched forward on his chair and rested his hand on the dog’s head, now settled between Ria’s feet. ‘She does seem pretty tired and breathless at times, but it’s hard to know if she’s just being pathetic. You know, someone says “Oh, you poor dog, you’ve got a sore leg” and she starts limping.’ John looked searchingly at the dog. ‘You are a bit of an actress, aren’t you, Boofy?’ Boofy gazed adoringly back.

‘Yes.’ Ria’s smile stretched her taut face. ‘But we’ve all noticed she doesn’t hang around the table at dinner time recently. She just doesn’t seem all that interested. The last time she really showed interest in food was that day, two weeks ago now, when I posted my resignation and she actually went into the gutter to get whatever it was. Last night, she sicked up her dinner straight after Connor fed her. That’s not unheard of, but what was unusual was she didn’t try to eat it again. He keeps saying her neck looks really weird. I’ve noticed it too, and her lead seems tight and hard to get on.’

‘What are we going to do with you, huh?’ said John, leaning towards the dog, half-glasses slipping down his nose and a frown creasing his absurdly youthful forehead. ‘Should we send you back to the lost dog’s home and demand a refund? We paid good money for you, you know, all those years ago. To say nothing of the vets’ bills, food, beds, and toys since.’

The dog flopped onto her stomach, front paws stretched out to support her head, one ear up and one down as she looked from John to Ria.

‘I think I’ll take her to the vet tomorrow and see what they say,’ said Ria, still half-hoping John would call her a panic-merchant. ‘I was there three months ago, just for her annual routine. They said something about a bit of arthritis, normal for her age, but otherwise pretty good. Somehow, I don’t feel satisfied with that now.’

‘Mm.’ John rubbed his afternoon stubble. ‘I’d like to come with you. I could get home about four if you can organise something after that.’

John was taking this too seriously for Ria’s peace of mind. She lay down beside the dog on the living room floor. ‘Please get better, Boofy,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll buy you a new rope toy and won’t even mind if it gets slaggy. I’ll throw it for you, anyway; inside, even. Just, please get better. We all love you, you know. And I don’t know what I would’ve done without you over the last months. You’ve been my support dog. And I just hope …’

*    *    *

The vet on duty, a young woman named Rachel, was gentle as she moved around Boofy making her careful examination. She commented on the dog’s good nature, endearing herself to Ria, who beamed and nodded like a proud mother. The dog was special to her and her family, but beyond that, Ria thought she was just special. She made you feel she could see into your soul and found it good, even if you were sometimes astonishingly cranky.

Boofy stood on the examining table, bearing the repeated prodding with stoicism, not even a curl of the lip on her closed mouth. The vet soothed and smoothed and listened attentively to the litany of seemingly unrelated symptoms: the intermittent limp, the lack of energy, the swollen neck, the relative disinterest in food, the regurgitated dinners.

As the examination went on and endlessly on and the vet’s face failed to look reassuring, Ria could feel her stomach twist into the familiar ridges and hollows of a warped washboard. She stood opposite John, their fingers laced over the dog’s head. They looked at each other, they looked at their dog, and they looked at the vet. The young woman was serious and calm as she started to speak.

She would like, she said, to be able to tell them all was well, but she couldn’t. Boofy was a lovely dog, but probably a very sick one. The swelling in her neck was her lymph nodes, responding to malaise of a serious sort. She couldn’t be sure, of course, without tests, but she didn’t want to give them false hope.

Ria stared at the concerned face, wanting the booming words to stop. She moved closer to the dog. John did too, forming a protective circle around her. The words went on, thrumming in the thick air. Ria heard “cancer” and buried her face in the dog’s fur. Now the vet was listing their options. They could take Boofy home and see how she went; they could leave her for tests, x-rays and observation. Or, they could have her put down humanely on the spot.

A roar of voiceless protest vibrated Ria’s scull and screamed between her ears. It drew the air from her body and turned her legs to jelly. She flopped onto the chair behind her and buried her head in her hands. ‘No,’ she groaned. ‘No. Not my dog.’

There must be some mistake. Boofy might be a bit lame, might have a bit of arthritis, but nothing you’d put her down for. She wanted a second opinion. She wanted …

The dog’s whimper pulled her to her feet. ‘Your mum’s okay,’ the vet said kindly, as Ria and John soothed and comforted and the tears rolled silently down their cheeks.

*    *    *

Connor and Cady were waiting when they got home, hovering at the front door. They listened quietly as their parents explained what the vet had told them. They continued to listen quietly as John and Ria said they had talked on the way home and didn’t want to put Boofy through tests and x-rays. She would hate being left in a strange place for observation, away from her home, her people.

‘Yes,’ said Connor simply. ‘I think we should let her go.’

‘What?’ whispered Cady, studying Connor’s bent head.

‘I don’t think we should wait to see how she goes.’ Connor’s voice was soft. Cady stared solemnly at her big brother, who had always been something of a third parent to her. ‘She’s not going to get better. You can see she’s sick, but she’s still got some happiness. If we wait …’

The dog’s laboured breathing was the loudest sound in the room. She lay on her rug panting, but otherwise not visibly distressed.

‘She’ll just get sicker and be miserable,’ acknowledged Cady, a picture of misery herself.

‘You’re right.’ Ria put her arms around her children. ‘It’s very hard, but we’ve got to do what’s best for her.’

John nodded. He got up and brought juice and glasses to the table. The ritual of pouring and drinking gave them some space.

‘I want to be there, though,’ said Cady stoutly, looking at each of her family in turn, and resting her eyes on the dog.

‘Of course. We’ll all go.’ Connor reached for his sister’s hand.

*    *    *

So it was, very early on Saturday morning, just two days later, a sombre group climbed into the car. The vet was opening especially early, so they could be there on their own, and do what they had to do before the main part of the surgery’s day started.

The only one happy to get into the car was Boofy. She was going downhill fast, but wagged her tail as Connor and John helped her up onto the back seat. She lay with her head in Cady’s lap and her body spread across Connor, noticeably neglecting to poke her nose at the window in the hope of someone opening it for her.

She walked unresistingly into the vet’s surgery, tail waving at low mast. John and Connor lifted her onto the table and stood at her tail end. Ria and Cady held hands and patted her head. Boofy looked at them, eyes dulled but still full of trust, tongue lolling on the metal table.

‘I feel such a traitor.’ Connor spoke for them all, as they looked at their dog, knowing what was about to happen, but unable to explain or give her a choice. Would she choose this over a slow, painful death? Ria wondered. I hope so. I hope we’re doing the right thing for you, beautiful dog.

The four of them moved closer around the table, leaving room at the side for the vet, who had explained the process as very quick, painless, and like going to sleep but not waking up.

No one turned away as the needle went in, although Ria half-closed her eyes and Cady pushed her head into her mother’s side.

Boofy gave a light sigh, her body stilled, and her eyes glazed over.

The vet closed the dog’s eyes, and quietly left the room, having previously explained about the rear exit. Four people gathered around their dog and lifted her from the table.

They carried her to the car and lay her on Ria’s lap.

They carried her to the back of the house, where John, Connor, and Cady had dug a grave. They laid her body, still soft and warm, onto her rug, the one that had always been hers. She had dragged it around, sometimes using it as a pillow, sometimes playing tug-of-war with it. On occasion, Ria had whisked it away to wash it, much to the rest of her family’s disgust. It wouldn’t smell the same, they said. Exactly, she agreed. Despite their protests, she didn’t think Boofy had ever much noticed the cleanliness or otherwise of the blanket, but Ria had. She had washed it in preparation for today. She didn’t want to lay her dog to rest in a smelly blanket.

They lowered Boofy carefully onto her permanent bed, and arranged her head, legs, and tail in sleeping position. Connor placed a soft fluffy yellow duck between her front paws. It was a toy from his childhood Boofy had loved to play with when they first brought her home, but which had been mended and put away when it started straining at the seams. Cady had found an old bone in the back yard and placed this near Boofy’s front paws as well. John dropped a well-chewed ball, and Ria a very matted and quite smelly rope toy she had discovered under the cabinet in the hallway next to where the dog’s bed had been before it was carried off by Cady to line the grave.

Together, they wrapped the sides of the blanket around the furry body and tucked her in. They took turns to spade some dirt, just enough to cover her, leaving the bulk of the job until later. They stood around the grave, holding hands, quiet.

Ria noticed wet cheeks, aware of the dampness of her own. ‘I think we could go inside now and make those pancakes we prepared before we left. Perhaps some hot chocolate as well,’ she said, drawing her family towards the house.

They trooped inside, sat at the table, very subdued now. Connor remembered how much Boofy had loved pancakes, and the time she had lifted a whole one from Cady’s plate when no one was looking. They started to share favourite memories. There were tears, and laughter, hugs, and bits of leftover pancake.

‘They’re Boofy’s,’ declared Cady, gathering them onto one plate, and smearing extra honey on them. ‘Come on, Connor, you can help.’

They disappeared into the back yard with their plate of scraps.

Chapter 15

‘She had cancer. That’s poleaxed me, and my family, although it’s not why I’ve come,’ Ria was lurching around the chaos in her head, serving up snatches to the sensible-looking woman sitting opposite her whose name was Miriam. Ria had known of her but they had not previously met. She had an excellent reputation for her work in general, but particularly in relation to workplace issues. She had rung to offer Ria an appointment as soon as an opening came up and that, coincidentally, was two days after Boofy’s death.

Ria moved back in her chair and put the bag she had been clutching in front of her down on the floor, conscious of the urge to wrap herself in her arms and sink her face onto her knees. She pushed her arms down her sides and raised her head. Now she was here she would stay for the hour even if she decided not to come back. She was feeling, she realised, what many clients no doubt feel – the urge to flee competing with the urge to spurt her story, fill the room with her anguish, and have it presented back tamed and contained.

Miriam looked quite relaxed herself, clearly unfazed by disjointed outbursts. She leaned forward and started to speak. ‘What I gather from what you’ve said so far is you’ve had a bad time in a workplace. You’ve lost your job, your colleagues, your clients, the work you were all doing together. A lot of losses. That experience has connected into memories from childhood, particularly the death of your brother when you were ten and the violence in your family. Now you’ve had to have your dog put down, and that seems like the last straw.’

Not bad, thought Ria, to have put that together from the ramblings. She looked at Miriam properly for the first time. She was older than Ria by some years and appeared to be one of those people who accepted the aging process gracefully. Her sensible clothes were comfortably filled and her unremarkable face owed nothing to cosmetics or beauticians. The gaze behind the glasses was clear and kind, and Ria could sense a keen brain under the fuzzy cap of greying hair.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but I don’t want to dwell on the dog. Her death is something I would normally have dealt with as part of life. I would’ve been very sad, but not unravelling like I am now.’ Ria looked up, hoping for a question or comment to give her direction.

Miriam sat for a moment and then spoke quietly. ‘Okay, we’ll get to what you do want to work on soon. But, I wonder what the dog represented for you?’

Ria opened her mouth to speak but nothing got past the lump in her throat. She looked across the room through hot eyes and burst into noisy sobs. She rocked and shuddered and hugged herself. She curled into her lap and clutched her pulsing head. She blubbered and babbled and didn’t even try to make sense. She was a child again – unloved, unlovable, confused, longing for a dog who would be her friend. She was an adult who couldn’t even look after a dog properly. She was a loser, a reject. No one could help her. She didn’t know what she was doing here. She didn’t know why she didn’t just walk under a bus. She couldn’t even do that, could she? Because of her kids. She was no use to them, though, was she, the way she was?

The torrent faltered to a trickle. Ria slumped, feeling skinless.

Miriam sat like a rock in a storm, sturdy legs solidly planted.

Ria pulled herself a couple of tissues and mopped her face and eyes. She felt a fool, but was tired of trying to keep it all together. And something about Miriam invited the burden into the space between. She trusted that invitation and wanted to make the most of it. That was why she had come. She pulled herself upright and gathered the remnants of rational adulthood.

‘I didn’t come here to blubber,’ she said, looking directly at Miriam. ‘But I’m glad to have done it. To get back to your question, Boofy was my dog. I felt a deep connection to her. She chose us. When we went to the lost dogs’ home she was the one who left her bone and rushed up wagging her tail and poking her nose through the mesh to say hello. She was a bit weird looking. That’s why we called her Boofy. We had a more formal name for her – Shay – but she answered to Boofy. She was a kelpie-cross, with a super long nose and enormous ears. It was love at first sight for me. During the last months, she’s been my anchor. She’s been there, day in and day out, often the first to hear the shrieks of pain and frustration and anger when yet another letter has arrived from The Portal or their lawyers or the board. She hung in there through all those crazy emotions that after the first couple of months I felt I had to at least try to keep to myself.’

‘Have you not felt supported, then?’ Miriam interjected.

‘Oh, yes, I have. I’ve had incredible support from family and colleagues and friends. My kids were blown away by the way the network kicked in. And, they’ve been fantastic. But, I’ve felt so toxic. At one stage I was convinced I smelt, even though a good friend promised me I didn’t. Boofy’s been there, through it all, the most faithful support dog in the world. I knew she wouldn’t care even if I did smell. She’s just been there, offering comfort, and company, and love. And now she’s dead. Of cancer. And I keep thinking …’ Ria’s eyes darted around the room seeking a means of escape.

‘That people say cancer is brought on by stress?’ Miriam queried softly, head tilted to one side.

‘Exactly.’ Ria felt the knots loosen. Here was someone who heard between the lines. She leaned her head against the back of the chair and let out a sigh that came up from her toes. ‘And then I feel guilty,’ she continued slowly, capturing images of herself blundering through the days in a world that rocked and tilted. ‘It feels like my fault. Everything feels like my fault. And then I feel hope-less. I can’t bear that state. I’ve got to find a way to claw myself out. And I feel as if I should be able to, but I can’t. On top of everything else, I feel incompetent. Charming, eh.’

‘It sounds like you feel you shouldn’t need to ask for help.’

‘Well, I’m supposed to be a psychologist …’ Ria realised the corner she was backing herself into, but Miriam was speaking again before she could plough further into it.

‘It almost sounds as if you don’t believe in your own process.’ The tone was mildly challenging.

Ria rested her head and closed her eyes. She was starting to feel a bit better. Miriam’s comment was so exactly the sort of thing she would say herself in similar circumstances.

‘Yes, I do believe in it,’ she said, smiling directly at Miriam and feeling reassured by the look of quiet concentration on her face. ‘My comment just reflects the way I’ve managed to scramble myself in all this. I’ve got no faith in myself and not much in anything else. I’m a mess, in other words. Which brings me to why I’m here. What am I trying to do? What do I want to be different at the end?’

‘They’re supposed to be my questions.’ Miriam was reaching for her diary. ‘But, before we move onto that,’ she added, settling herself again, ‘I feel the need to have more background. Perhaps we could spend a couple of sessions, or better still a double session if that seems manageable, hearing more of your story? In the process, your questions might become clearer.’

Ria felt lighter as she gathered her things. Nothing had changed, but her mood had shifted. Instead of the dead weight bending her spine and dragging her feet, the burden felt more like a manageable albatross she could detach and scrutinise piece by piece with the help of a compassionate gaze. Perhaps a clay albatross that could be reconstructed into a friendly garden pet, coming magically alive to skim across the water and warn swimmers of approaching sharks.

Chapter 16

‘That’s pretty much it for The Portal,’ said Ria, drawing breath after providing Miriam with a reasonably sequential overview of the partnership process, early rumblings after Lena’s arrival, the memo, allegations of unethical behaviour, threats of termination and legal action, demands to attend meetings, return property, sign a settlement and release agreement, desist from talking to anyone associated with The Portal, provide contact with her medical practitioner, the involvement of the journalist, union, and lawyers. She shrank back in her chair as she spoke about the repeated invasion of her home by courier-delivered letters, the futile process at the Industrial Relations Commission, the equally futile grievance hearing with the board, the meeting with executives of the church auspicing body, the non-meeting with the Member of Parliament, and her decision to resign rather than settle.

‘I’m not surprised you’re exhausted. That’s quite a story, and I’m guessing that’s the short version. I can also guess at some of the emotional costs for you and your family. You’ve done well to be functioning at all.’

Ria was grateful for that comment, which could have been patronising, but wasn’t. ‘Perhaps that’s one benefit of a difficult childhood – all those coping skills you have to learn to move on.’

‘True, although that’s not always the way it goes. Speaking of which, you’ve given me some idea of your early life through the year your brother was killed, but there’s still a big gap. I don’t know what happened after that year, or much about John; in other words, how you got from there to here, apart from the glitch of The Portal.’

*    *    *

‘Okay.’ Ria closed her eyes, taking her mind back over the years. ‘I’ll start with my family of origin. I’ve done work on this before so should be able to keep it brief and factual.’

‘I thought you probably had so, yes, it’s mainly for my benefit, for context.’ Miriam sat back, her homely face attentive and calm.

‘Not long after James died my siblings started to leave home. I was the last, although not by choice; unlike The Portal, where I was the first out the door, although again not by choice. I think my brothers and sisters searched around for things to do that would take them away from home. Joseph went to work in a government department in Canberra. Patricia went nursing; in those days, trainee nurses lived in the nurses’ home. Paul got married and later moved to the USA. Therese went to teach in a country town. Annette married young and went to live in Western Australia. She had three children pretty quickly. Veronica, bless her, went into the convent. That left me, the one with nowhere to go; pretty much stuck between Mum’s fanaticism and Dad’s reclusiveness.’

‘How did you get on?’

‘Badly, I suppose. I guess I was bewildered. Dad sometimes snarled but rarely said anything comprehensible. Mum hovered and hissed about evil and the devil and hell-fire and damnation.’

‘Did you get any help at school?’

‘Like counselling, you mean?’ Ria laughed, not a joyful sound.

‘I guess not, in those days.’

‘Not in those days and not at my rule-driven, god-fearing, offer-it-up-for-the-suffering-souls-in-purgatory school. I plodded on, studying hard, doing what I could to keep the household functioning. Mum seemed to have given up, apart from going to church. I don’t know what she did with herself all day; Dad, either, for that matter, especially after he retired. But, I guess I’d pretty much cut myself off emotionally by then.’

Hearing herself say that out loud shocked Ria. ‘My goodness,’ she said, ‘that sounds so callous.’

‘Hardly,’ Miriam intervened. ‘You’re making judgements about decades ago from where you are now. Back then, you were a child or a teenager, and not in any position to parent your parents. Let’s move on with your story and come back to that later if we need to.’

Ria sat for a moment, gathering her thoughts, and then pushed on. ‘In my last year of school, I pretty much threw in the towel. I still went to school because it was away from home, but lost focus. I think I read every Agatha Christie available from the local library that year, but very little else. My parents didn’t seem to notice my homework-free Year Twelve lifestyle. They were much more exercised when I refused to go to church, or say the rosary. I also started smoking, which was almost as big a rebellion as not going to church.’

‘You don’t smoke now, though?’

‘No, but I did for a very long time, well past its use-by as a symbol of rebellion.’

‘Another story there, I guess, but let’s stick with the main agenda.’

‘Good idea. Life was pretty haphazard. No one did any housework. I don’t remember what we ate. I started walking a lot to get out of the house, but Mum decided it was to meet boys. I never knew when she would pounce – in doorways, my bedroom, behind the laundry, on the front verandah, always in tatty clothes, often a faded nightdress, greasy frizzed hair sticking out every whichway, no teeth, thrashing arms, arthritic fingers digging into my arms and shoulders, spitting at me about what a filthy creature I was, cheap slut, whore, tart, no daughter of hers, and so on. It was pretty awful.’

‘Yes.’

Ria was learning Miriam did not need to say much to convey a lot.

‘She decided I was evil, and sent me to see a priest. He told me to kneel down between his legs and close my eyes. I fled the presbytery, and refused to see him again. She sent me to see another priest. He said nothing and fell asleep. She sent me to see a doctor, pillar of the Catholic community type. He clasped white fingers across tweed waistcoat, smiled at the ceiling, and said I was causing a lot of trouble – refusing to get out of bed in the morning, disappearing for hours at a time, smoking cigarettes, defying my parents. He might need to put me in hospital, he said, and gave me pills.

‘I threw the pills in the bin and ran away, ending up in a seedy rooming house in a run down western suburb. I let my parents know where I was, but didn’t hear anything from them. I didn’t hear anything from any of my siblings, either, even Annette. That was hard, because we’d been so close as kids. She told me, years later, Mum wouldn’t tell her where I was. I had the devil in me, Mum said and deserved all I got. I was not to be mentioned again. Other siblings might’ve been told the same, for all I know. I’ve never talked to them about it.

‘It was while I was living in the rooming-house I first met John.’

‘Fortuitous, by the sound of things.’

*    *    *

‘We met in a workplace. I was a gofer; he was at university and working during the long vacation. We knew each other about four years before we got married, by which time I’d made an uneasy reconciliation with my parents. In our early days, he completed his doctorate, and I got work at the same university. It was fun, setting up on our own, doing our own thing, both a bit clueless about how to make our way in the world.

‘We didn’t have much money, but pottered around, op-shopping for furniture, making things like bookshelves, using recycled wood we sandpapered and stained and oiled, and concrete bricks we painted over and over because they were so porous. We still have those bookshelves, somewhat reconstructed, complete with candle-burns from our first flat. We had an old bomb of a car we couldn’t always afford to fuel, but we had a library in walking distance and a couple of parks. John was a keen football fan in those days, and sometimes we went together. Not exactly high living, but a good life.

‘During those early years, Gough Whitlam got into power and made university education free. After John had been working for a few years I started studying, eventually doing my doctorate. They were exciting times, especially when I got an academic position after I finished.

‘I had Connor in the middle of my doctorate, which put the research into perspective, and, in retrospect, I found the combination of parenting and studying easier than later years when we were juggling work and children; I could do a lot of the research from home.

‘We had Cady seven years after Connor, while I was still an academic.’

‘Lots of balls in the air.’

‘Exactly. However, having children was … something else. I’d always known John would be a good parent, and a good person to learn to parent with. I’d given the pros and cons of parenting lots of thought, produced lots of lists, but had no idea how it would feel – those tiny soft bodies, the fierce protectiveness, the just-for-you smiles, little arms reaching out, full of trust, first steps and funny words, the view of the world through new eyes … Breathtaking.’

‘I’d like to have a camera right now.’ Miriam smiled across the room.

‘Do I look really soppy?’

‘Not at all, but I can see your feelings about your children.’

‘John talks about a time when Connor was a baby and giving us a hard time not sleeping at night. He’d been crying for hours one night and John was trying to settle him, for the umpteenth time. Connor kept crying. I was in the next room, sprawled across the bed, almost crying myself with exhaustion, and heard John say “have a bad vibe, kid”. His tone was conversational, not angry at all, but I was through the door like a streak, whisking Connor up and out of John’s reach.

‘John said I looked appalled, as if he might sprout horns any minute. Connor still had no nappy, and I was suddenly wet all down my front. We ended up sitting on the floor laughing, more than somewhat giddily I suspect, bundling Connor into his pram and all going for a walk at three o’clock in the morning. By the time we got back, Connor was settled so we left him in his pram and fell into bed ourselves.’

‘It makes you wonder how anyone survives, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, and life did become complicated with two young children, two full-time jobs, aging parents on both sides, household to keep functioning. John was great with the kids, but not much use domestically. I’m not the Wonder Woman I needed to be, and didn’t do well with the seat-of-the-pants lifestyle. My teaching load was increasingly in research methods, and I was struggling with the whole notion of academic psychology as value-neutral, apolitical, objective science. On top of all that, it was the era of amalgamations of tertiary institutions; everyone jockeying for position and looking down the barrel of corporatised education; not exactly a good time for reflecting on philosophical dilemmas.

‘There might have been other ways of dealing with the complexity, but mine was to work part-time, in the community as a practitioner, rather than as an academic. I was away from home fewer hours, had more flexibility philosophically, or so it seemed, and didn’t go home to piles of marking and preparation and reading and writing.’

‘Well,’ said Miriam, who had been jotting the occasional note during this recital. ‘That’s probably a reasonable overview, at least for now. I am curious, though, to hear a bit more about John. He seems, apart from domestic shortcomings, extraordinarily supportive and patient, a bit of a saint, almost.’

‘He’d be the last to make that claim, but certainly extraordinarily supportive, and that’s been his stand-out gift in our relationship. You probably need to talk to him to get to know him better. He’s not like anyone else I’ve ever known. He’s always been loyal, and I think that’s his nature. He’s the same about his own family of origin and also about our children.

‘He says when he first met me he thought I was very glamorous and probably had heaps of boyfriends and wouldn’t be interested in him. I was unaware of that, but was aware of his belief in me. He believed I could be successful at university, and good at whatever I did, and most importantly, he believed I could be a good mother. Where that came from, I don’t know, and it took a long time to assimilate – fifteen years from the time we met until we had Connor – but I’m glad he persisted, and very grateful.’

‘It is noteworthy, given your own childhood; you managed to develop some belief in the possibility of good mothering, or at least “good enough” mothering.’

‘I guess so, although again, you’d need to talk to Connor and Cady about whether the belief’s justified. There’s lots of things I’ve tried to do as a parent – allow them space to become themselves, be available and supportive, get heavy only when absolutely necessary, lead by example when it comes to values – but they’re the ones who can say whether it’s worked for them.’

‘I don’t expect I will get to meet your family, although it’d be interesting. One other question: You mentioned giving up your job as an academic in a reasonably matter of fact way, but I’m wondering if it was like that at the time?’

‘No. I minded, for sure, but we didn’t come to grief over it.’

‘You don’t want to go there …’

‘It’s done and can’t be changed. Indirectly, I suppose it’s why I’m here because it’s how I ended up at The Portal.’

‘No Lenas in academia?’

‘I’m sure there are, and almost certainly plenty of Lens. I just didn’t encounter them.’

‘You said you didn’t come to grief over the job decision. Was there something you did come to grief over, or nearly so?’

‘Yes, and no prizes for guessing; it was my mother. To be fair, she didn’t actually interfere, or get between us directly. It was more about my attitude to her, and John’s incomprehension of that.’

‘Mm?’

‘Well, by the time Connor was nine and Cady was two, my father was dead and Mum was one of the living dead. Each week, I would pack myself and one or both of the children into the car for the trip across town to the nursing home. After a while, John refused to go. I accused him of being unsupportive – most unfairly I realise, particularly in the light of all I’ve just said.’

*    *    *

‘Un-supp-or-tive.’ John tested each syllable. ‘I’ve supported and believed in everything you’ve done all the years I’ve known you. I believed in you when you didn’t believe in yourself.’ His voice, rising through disbelief and dismay was building into anger. ‘This is beyond me. Why on earth you drag yourself and the kids over to see that old … woman week after week is more than I can fathom. If you want to live out some fantasy, and beat yourself around the ears in the process, I can’t stop you. But I’m certainly not going with you.’

He stood on the nature strip, white knuckles against stiff thighs, glaring at Ria, as she fumbled washing bag, cakes, and kids into the car.

‘I don’t know why I do it, either,’ she mumbled, voice trailing off into the suburban silence. ‘Perhaps I’m still hoping she’ll turn into a mother; or perhaps a grandmother.’ She jumped into the car, hot eyes hidden behind dark glasses, and pulled away from the kerb.

And what sort of a fool does that make me, she wondered? And what sort of mother?

She glanced at her children through the rear view mirror, both staring straight ahead and staying very quiet. They didn’t complain about visiting her mother, but would no doubt much rather go to the park, or for a bike ride with the dog, or just for ice cream.

‘Oh, well, my darlings,’ she said, ‘I guess we can work something out.’ Connor smiled. She could see him through the mirror. He was so canny, she wondered if he understood at least some of the unspoken behind her comment. She wouldn’t be surprised. He had always understood more of the world than he could possibly know from experience. The midwife who had delivered him said she thought he had been here before.

*    *    *

‘What happened after that?’ asked Miriam.

‘After John’s outburst? I went less often to see Mum, and hardly ever took the children. I didn’t like doing things without them at weekends, because it was our time together, but I could see John’s point. It wasn’t much fun for them, and even if they just stayed home, at least they had their own things and could relax.

‘I steeled myself against Mum’s mutterings about how she could be dead for all her children knew – probably right in at least some cases – and how she needed more soap or toothpaste or stockings – probably wrong; she’d always been a hoarder. I’d look at her sunken eyes that’d never learned to smile and the thin line of a mouth that spat out prayer and knew the most generous thing I could feel for her was pity. Even in her eighties she hadn’t learned to let other people be. She still tried to bully fellow residents into saying rosaries and prayers and attending Masses.

‘One of the staff asked me to get her to stop after she’d been harassing people for weeks. Some of the people in the home weren’t even Catholics, the nurse pointed out, and were entitled to do their own thing at their age.

‘I couldn’t have agreed more, but didn’t hold out much hope of convincing Mum. She didn’t really have any other way of connecting with people apart from religion. She was the same with Connor and Cady. The only presents they ever received from her were rosary beads and medals and holy pictures. She once gave Connor a plastic nativity set, which he insisted on displaying each Christmas. Cady wore the rosary beads around her neck and rattled the medals in a tin can. After their births, I didn’t see much of her, but she sent nuns to visit. They didn’t show much interest in the babies, but quizzed me about plans for baptism and warned of the dire consequences for neglecting such rites.

‘Mum actually died in the same year as John’s outburst. It was sudden in the end, almost like one day she was doing what she’d always done, harassing people to say the rosary, and the next day she was dead.’

‘How did that feel?’

‘I was stunned. It seemed unbelievable. I couldn’t imagine my mother dead. Then I felt this huge surge of relief. Again unbelievable. I didn’t grieve; hardly stopped, except to attend the funeral. Stopping would’ve been dangerous, I knew, although the danger was formless, and the something else buried deep inside seemed best left alone. I think I took off into emotional no-man’s land.’

‘A well-worn track, almost an automatic safety valve, perhaps, with traces back to the box and the cot and your secret place?’

‘Probably, and probably quite functional in those early days, although now I like to at least be aware of what I’m feeling even if I decide to deal with it later. I still go into that space sometimes, though. Connor picks up on it, usually asks me if I’m okay, although I wouldn’t have thought there were obvious signs of not-okayness. He puts a positive spin on it, bless him, says when I take off, he also has opportunities to get inside his own head. I think it’s more constructive in him, though, more weighted towards reflection than introspection.’

‘Interesting how traits get passed along.’ Miriam looked pensive.

‘I guess so, especially given my father’s personality, although I’m no fan of genetic determinism.’ And, I don’t think we should diverge into that territory, Ria added to herself.

‘No need to look so wary.’ Miriam shook her head reassuringly. ‘I think the point you’re making is that whatever might get passed on, however that happens, is also open to transformation.’

‘Am I? I’ll have to think about that some more. Getting back to Mum, though, after she died, I think I imagined I was free. Free to be who I am without butting against that relentless force to bend and malform.’ Ria lapsed into silence, staring into space.

Miriam waited.

‘Perhaps that was part of my naivety,’ Ria murmured, ‘that bittersweet quality I think of in better moments as the source of hope.’ She looked across the room. ‘If you’re not naive, can you be hopeful? If you’re not naive, are you necessarily bitter and cynical? What source is there for hope that’s not naive?’

Miriam sat back, crossing her impressive ankles. ‘Good questions, which I know you don’t expect me to answer, or even perhaps to find answers for yourself.’

‘Thanks for all that background,’ she continued matter-of-factly. ‘It’s been useful, and interesting to see you revisit some of your difficult times without being overwhelmed.’

‘Yes, it’s pretty much “there and then” stuff again. I know what happened, some of it was shitty, but it’s not happening now. Most of the time that’s how I live my life. I don’t particularly try to wipe out the past, but I’m not living it. That’s what was so scary about the night after the hearing. I was actually back there; no boundary between “there and then” and “here and now”. It was probably only a few seconds, but very unsettling, to say the least.’

‘Of course. And, what you want, presumably, is to get to grips with that experience.’

‘Yes, and I know it has to do with Lena and Mum. They aren’t blurred together anymore; that, again, was momentary. I know they’re two separate people, but they have things in common that trigger similar reactions in me. I need to be able to deal with people like that and know I can hold on to my Self at all times.’

‘Ninety percent of the time won’t do?’

‘Probably not, but I won’t knock incremental progress.’

‘Good, because I’m sure I don’t need to tell you there are no guarantees here.’

‘And you come highly recommended!’

Chapter 17

As she pulled into her driveway, Ria remembered the maidenhair fern she had discarded in the backyard after bringing home its shrivelled remains from her office. She had thought about it from time to time but hadn’t sought it out. It had been given to her as a gift, and had thrived for a long time on her window-ledge at The Portal, where it had enjoyed plenty of natural light and the Spartan absence of artificial heating and cooling. The graceful fragility of its feathery fronds and miniature multi-green leaves had been accentuated by the sturdy jacaranda on the other side of the window. Its downhill slide had been painful to witness.

John was in the backyard watering his vegetables when Ria went through in search of her plant.

‘Hello, m’darling. What’re you up to?’ He balanced the hose on a branch of the camellia tree so it sprayed a riot of tomato bushes.

What are we going to do with all those tomatoes, wondered Ria, as she returned John’s hug and smiled at his impracticality. We can’t use that many, and they’re all going to ripen at once. I’ll have to put some out front so people can help themselves.

‘I was just wondering,’ she said, looking distractedly around the garden. ‘I was just wondering what had become of my maidenhair.’

‘Ah!’ said John. ‘An easy one for a change.’

He disappeared behind the trellis where he kept plants waiting for re-potting or planting. Ria knew he would only be a few seconds. He and Cady were both incredibly messy, but both also surprisingly able to find things they had squirreled away. This feat never ceased to amaze Ria, and to frustrate her as well. It was hard to sustain a case against the perils of mess in the face of such counter-evidence.

‘I was wondering when to show you this,’ said John, holding the pot protectively against his chest and peering into it. ‘I cut it right back, and burnt the ends. Sounds drastic, I know, but it’s supposed to be the way to go.’

Ria stared in dismay at the charred stems protruding from the centre of the damp pot.

‘It may not look up to much, but I’ve just had my magnifying glass to it. Come. I’ll show you.’ He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the wrought-iron table in the centre of the yard, still cradling the pot in his other arm.

With the help of the magnifying glass, Ria could see what John was excited about. Close to the base of the plant were several tiny green shoots, shaped like miniature shepherds’ crooks.

‘That’s new growth, I’m sure of it,’ he said. There was pleasure and awe in his voice. ‘I was pretty nervous after I burnt it back, but it seems to have paid off. I’m going to put it where it can get more sun and keep an eye on it for a while. I might transplant it into a self-watering pot. I’ve heard they like to get their water from below.’

‘I see what you mean,’ said Ria, still inspecting the base of the plant. ‘It’s been stripped bare. But it’s not dead, and it’s trying as hard as it can to reach the light.’

She watched as John replaced the plant carefully among a cluster of pots, each making its own efforts towards growth. Her gaze moved around the garden, past the flamboyant vegetable patch, coming to rest on Boofy’s grave. She gathered a posy of deep pink justicia and fishbone fern, and arranged it at the dog’s head.

‘Bless you, Boofy,’ she whispered. ‘Rest in peace.’

John knelt beside her and rested his head on her shoulder. ‘I think you’re going to start getting better now, Ri. Perhaps more like the maidenhair than the tomatoes, but better just the same.’

Ria turned slowly and held him close.

*    *    *

She slept better that night than she had for a long time. The three o’clock alert failed to happen. That taut, wide-eyed wakefulness that comes out of nowhere and stares into the black hole of troubled thoughts. Well, not exactly out of nowhere. Ria understood those abrupt awakenings as a defence against wounds partly healed. She remembered plenty from her childhood, particularly the violence meted out as discipline. Other images lurked more dimly, stabbing at the edges of consciousness, almost within reach but never quite grasped.

One of the legacies of that childhood was a deep ambivalence about her dead father. She had loved him and then been disillusioned by him. He had loved her and been affectionate in her early years, but had turned in on himself so he seemed incapable of loving anyone. He had died a lonely old man, a shrunken ball of helpless limbs and hopeless features, turned towards the blank wall of a bleak nursing home.

Ria was intensely aware of the loneliness, and deeply sorry there had been no one in his life to help him with the grief of his son’s death. As a ten-year-old she had been mostly aware of the effects on herself, the overwhelming feeling of being on her own. Later it had been too late. She wished it could have been different; for everyone.

There was little ambivalence in her thoughts of her mother. The memories were bad, even before James’ death. She yearned for what might have been but never was, rather than for what was and then was lost. She had developed understanding of her mother’s life over the years, however, and was aware she needed to bring that understanding to a new level. The stereotype of the bad mother bringing misfortune to an endless future was too clichéd to be tolerated.

Ria left her thoughts of her dead parents, and gathered the fragments of her dream. It was one she had had several times recently, but last night had been slightly different.

She was staying in a strange room. A hotel room, very comfortable, with plush velvet armchairs, two soft double beds, and antique furniture. She was on her own in the room, curtains drawn against garish city lights.

She was awake in her dream, and groping towards a light that was piercing the joins of a concertina partition separating her room from the next. She thought it was strange she had not noticed the flimsy structure in the daytime. Surely it would not be soundproof and why was it there? It seemed out of character, and what was she doing in such a luxurious room, anyway? It was certainly comfortable, but the dark comfort had a treacherous edge. She moved around the room, knowing she had to find her way through to the light. But all her careful exploration had not revealed the secret of the partition; until last night.

She had discovered a small recess in the middle of the partition. It was cold and smooth and had a slightly raised centre strip. She prodded the strip with a fingernail until it wedged into a gap. That must be the keyhole. All she needed was the key and she could get through to the light.

‘That should be simple enough,’ she was blurting into John’s startled face as she woke up.

*    *    *

The next sessions with Miriam were easier. Ria could hold the images of the recovering maidenhair and the slivers of light while she stumbled around the dramas of her past, both recent and distant.

They had reviewed the previous sessions, and Miriam had asked whether Ria still considered she had made the right decision in resigning from The Portal rather than negotiating a settlement.

‘Definitely,’ responded Ria. ‘The settlement they were insisting on would’ve been the final defeat. It would’ve silenced me totally. There were so many “gotcha” clauses, and all for a few thousand dollars. I can’t understand that. How corporations and institutions seem entitled to buy silence with their dirty money.’

Miriam cleared her throat. ‘I suppose,’ she said, mildly, ‘that people who agree to settlements might see them differently, as providing part of what they’re due.’

There was no reproach in Miriam’s voice, or in her features, but Ria felt startled. Had she sounded judgmental? Did she feel judgmental?

‘You’re right,’ she acknowledged, after giving herself time to think. ‘What I did was right for me. It seemed the only way left to stand up for myself.’

‘A statement of resistance, perhaps; a bit like hiding the strap when you were a child?’

‘Maybe. Hiding the strap was a lot scarier.’

From early on, she acknowledged to Miriam, Lena’s behaviour had reminded her of her mother. Until the night of the hearing, though, she’d been clear the situations, and the people, were not the same and she, herself, was no longer a child. She had been doing as an adult what she had tried doing as a child – standing up to a bully. The hearing had, however, tumbled her back into the powerlessness of childhood.

‘On the night after the hearing,’ she said, ‘I had this overwhelming feeling that if I went to sleep something terrible would happen and I wouldn’t be able to stop it. When I did drift off, I felt myself tumbling, tumbling back into the chaos of childhood. That’s when I woke John. I think I did that with the last shreds of my adult self.’

‘I’m not sure what you’re saying,’ Miriam cut in, speaking slowly. ‘Are you, at some level, holding onto a belief that if you’d stayed awake the night your brother died you could’ve somehow prevented his death?’

‘No.’ Ria shook her head. ‘I’ve worked through that before, although it’s certainly true both Annette and I worried, as children, that James’ death could’ve been God’s punishment for us not being “good enough”. I’m clear we weren’t responsible, but what does lurk in the depths, perhaps, is a sense of having failed to see trouble coming. I went to sleep as usual that night so long ago and when I woke up James was dead. There was something bad happening to him even when he was away from my mother and home and I had no inkling of it. Why didn’t I know?’

That had made her world seem totally out of control, totally unpredictable, she realised, although she wouldn’t have been able to say so at the time.

‘I think at the time,’ she continued more slowly, ‘I actually blamed my mother. She’d told James he was bad and James died.’

Ria could feel the fear that weakened the limbs of a child in the face of such seeming omnipotence. She took several slow, deliberate breaths before continuing.

‘I don’t think I believed, even then, she’d physically caused the accident far from home, but my fear of her ballooned. It took several forms that fear, but Mum just saw defiance. She saw me as bad. That was terrifying. I didn’t die, not physically, but I pretty much died on the inside for about ten years until I decided to do life my way.’

Ria closed her eyes and thought about the long road to her way. The long road that had seemed to find its logical conclusion in the power-sharing ideas of the partnership process.

‘And the connection to Lena?’

Miriam’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. Ria blinked and shook herself.

‘Yeah, well, Lena, in effect, said my way was bad. And my way was me, so I was bad. The hearing didn’t exactly confirm that, but it didn’t challenge it either. The issues weren’t even addressed. That rocked me. In my rattled state, I anticipated disaster. A disaster I was powerless to control. A nameless, formless disaster. Not necessarily to me. And that seemed even more threatening. Perhaps to one of my children.’

Ria could still feel the tug of that fear, but focused instead on Miriam’s solid, non-threatening presence.

‘After John had brought me back to the here and now, I sat up in bed at four o’clock in the morning and shouted at Lena. I yelled that what she’d done to the process and me and colleagues and clients was hateful, sleazy, low-life. “How do you live with yourself?” I yelled. “How do you sleep at night? You’re just a bloated shark in a small pond; polluted now, thanks to you. I hope you pay and I hope I’m there to see it happen.” Well, that was more or less the gist of it. I did, also, I’m embarrassed to admit now, imagine opening the paper the next morning and seeing her name in the bereavement notices.’

Ria leaned back in her chair, exhausted by her memories. She shut her eyes and let her head loll to the side of the padded headrest.

‘That last bit …?’ Miriam’s voice again; checking this time – as she was bound to do.

‘Don’t worry; you can let it pass to the keeper. I don’t, and never did, wish her any bodily harm. It was a childish response from a childish zone. It reminded me of Annette saying something similar about our parents once when we were kids; and she’s the sort who wouldn’t kill a cockroach she found in her food cupboard.’

‘So, how did you feel after all that yelling?’

Ria sat up and clicked her thoughts into focus. She could still relive that night, but she didn’t have to. It was over.

‘In some ways better,’ she said, moving her head in a circle to ease the knot in her neck. ‘And in some ways worse. Less angry and less fearful I was going to be pulled back into the past. Less fragmented. The anger and fear seemed to drain away as I came back into myself. But devastatingly broken and deadly tired and achingly sad. John brought me a cup of tea and went back to sleep. I couldn’t sleep so I got up and started writing.’

Ria had, in fact, stayed up the rest of the night, scribbling her desolation across half a notepad.

‘You find writing useful?’ Miriam broke into her thoughts.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Ria, thinking of the many times it had helped her make sense of the seemingly senseless. ‘It’s as if, once I’ve got words on paper, I can tame whatever’s going on, pull apart the voices gabbling over my shoulder – critical, rejecting, scary, compassionate, supportive, wise. I can name the pain and decide to deal with it then or later, because it’s out there to come back to. I can unscramble and focus on something specific.’

‘And where did it take you on that particular night?’

‘Well, eventually it’s brought me here, although there’s been a lot of time in between just dealing with the grassfires as they cropped up, or battling to plain survive. After that night, though, I did realise I’d have to do more counselling. That made me pretty pissy, to be honest. I felt as if I’d already worked on the first twenty years of my life for the next thirty or so, and it should all be sorted. But, no, there I was with Mum in my face again, masquerading as Lena, or should that be the other way around? Anyway, I knew I didn’t want to live a half-life, so I knew I had to work through the connections between them to have any chance of recovering my spirit.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Miriam thoughtfully. ‘Lena and your mother both seem to have affected your sense of self, of who you are, your identity. Working on the connections between them should open up healing possibilities for your spirit – as you so interestingly put it – for someone who describes themselves as an atheist.’

‘I don’t know any better term than spirit.’ Ria felt embarrassed. ‘This is territory I thought I’d rejected along with daily masses and family rosaries. I only really acknowledged I had “it” whatever it is, when it was damaged.’

‘Mm. Damaged, not destroyed. Your words. I wonder if you can say a little more about what “it” is, the part that’s been most damaged?’

‘I guess it’s the fighting part, the part that cares – about justice – personally, professionally, politically. I think it’s always been there, although as a child the horizons were narrow. Not that there was any shortage of social injustice when I was a kid – stolen generations, White Australia Policy, racism, to say nothing of the status of women, and class politics – but, of course, there was nothing in any of my education about any of that. What I learnt about the politics of power as a child came from my family, and even that didn’t have language associated with it, except the “not fair” variety.’

‘I don’t suppose that fighting spirit ever totally dissipates,’ said Miriam, ‘just recedes into the background from time to time, like now, when you need to regroup.’

Chapter 18

On her way home, Ria stopped at the local shopping centre. Much like its counterparts across Melbourne, it was a long stretch, from tram line to rail tracks, of eateries, clothing outlets with sales racks and spruikers on the pavement, and densely packed bargain centres spilling their plastic wares, interspersed by banks, post office, pharmacies, bookshops, and newsagency.

It was fairly busy on this weekday mid-afternoon, and clusters of people were enjoying outdoor coffee in the soft autumn sunshine. Outdoor tables were becoming increasingly popular, particularly with smokers. Some premises boasted outdoor heating during the winter months, and people huddled under it feeding their nicotine habit while proclaiming the benefits of fresh air. Ria recognised the story line.

She headed purposefully past people and shops towards the end of the strip where a large hardware store had recently been taken over by a leading welfare agency and converted into an opportunity shop. She liked op-shopping. It suited the legacy of her upbringing. She liked the thought of depriving multinational coffers. She liked the sense of treasure hunt as she sorted through racks and baskets of jumbled sizes and styles to find clothes she wanted to try. Her tastes had roots in the hippie sixties and, apart from fetes and street festivals, op shops were an archive of promising possibilities.

Today was different, though. She wanted colour, but she wanted something tailored as well. No dipping hems or floating tie-dye. She had to get out of black, but wanted her boundaries clearly defined. Cady had recently been scathing about the bleakness of her clothing.

*    *    *

‘Criminy, Mum! Even your knickers are black!’ They were getting ready for a swim together. ‘You turning into an old lady, or what?’

Ria looked at her pile of black clothes, her black bathers, black bathing cap, black goggles, black bag, and challenged Cady to a race. ‘Just to see whether old ladies can still swim,’ she said. What she didn’t say was that getting dressed at all, at that stage, still sometimes seemed like a major achievement.

*    *    *

Those days were receding, she realised, as she scanned and rummaged.

Within half an hour, she had emerged from the shop, wearing a deep emerald green suit of soft fine wool with double-breasted jacket to mid-thigh and fully lined skirt to mid-calf, perfect fit and well tailored, over a mauve silk shirt, good combination with the suit.

When she got home, she was the first to arrive. The house seemed uncomfortably quiet without even the dog to greet her. She decided to go outside and check her maidenhair and was delighted to find it had put on a growth spurt. Fresh green fronds now formed respectable bunches at the base of the pot and a delicate cluster of leafy growth projected from its centre. She took it inside and sat it on a coffee table in front of a tall window in the living area, next to the glass plaque Connor had organised for the dog. She wiped the pot free of dust and filled the self-watering base. She lifted the plaque, held it in both hands, and replaced it at an angle to the fern.

She had almost forgotten her new look when Connor clattered down the corridor, dropped an armful of music scores on the table, his backpack and guitar case on the floor, and stood looking at her.

‘Cool!’ he said, reaching for the snack barrel and filling his mouth with chocolate biscuit.

‘Are you going to court again, Mummy?’ asked Cady a few minutes later, sounding wary. Ria had explained the Industrial Relations Commission to Cady as a bit like a court. Cady clearly held a dim view of that possibility for the new clothes.

‘Mm!’ said John. ‘I’m not sure it’s you, but it certainly lights your eyes again.’

That’s what Ria had thought when she had first looked at herself in the shirt and suit. Her face had features again and, she felt, her short spikes of blond hair at one end and ankle-high soft black boots at the other provided interesting contrast to the formal look. Anyway, she liked it.

For now.

*    *    *

She wore the suit to her next session with Miriam. It was a symbol of transition from dark to light. She still had work to do on the dark spaces, but felt better equipped to do it. She knew Miriam would notice the change, but trusted her not to make laboured comments about how much better she looked and how important it was for a woman to care for her appearance.

‘Well, you look as if you might be ready for some of the hard work,’ was Miriam’s comment after the initial greetings. ‘I suppose we could start with the obvious; your mother and Lena – both women.’

‘I’ve thought about that, but I don’t like where it goes. You know – mothers and daughters in inevitable and hateful conflict. Women terrified of turning into their mothers. Women reacting to other women as if they were their mothers or, alternatively, their daughters. Women bitching at each other just because women are bitches. Conflicts between women reduced to cat-fights, or pathologies.’

Ria paused to organise her thoughts.

‘It’d be easy to fit my story into that sort of framework,’ she went on, ‘but it feels too narrow. I prefer to think in terms of power and abuses of power. Gender might be part of that, but not necessarily.’

She looked at Miriam to see if she was making sense.

Miriam had her chin cupped and was nodding into her palm. ‘I see what you’re getting at,’ she said. ‘Let me just ask, though, whether you think gender has any relevance in your case?’

‘Not sure. Parent-child and boss-employee are unequal relationships, whatever the gender mix. They’re certainly not just a “woman thing” on a presumably level playing field. A man could have occupied Lena’s position. My father could have been the vicious parent.’

Ria would happily have sidetracked into a general discussion of power relations, a well-trodden comfort zone for her. But that wasn’t what she was here to do, so she shut her mouth and looked at Miriam, waiting for her to provide a lead.

‘Let’s take this one step further. Leaving your parents as they were, let’s suppose the executive director had been a man who behaved in a similar way to Lena; would that have made a difference?’

‘Give me a minute,’ Ria stalled.

‘No, it wouldn’t, and yes, it would,’ she said eventually. ‘It would still have been bad behaviour for any executive director, and it would still have meant a lot of people, including myself, losing their jobs, and the effects on clients and the process would still have been the same. But …’

‘Yes?’ prompted Miriam.

‘But, if Lena had been a man, I probably would’ve reacted to the theatrics with contempt rather than fear.’

‘And …?’

‘It’s hard to know, because it wasn’t that way, but as far as I can think it through, I would still have fought the same fight, and it would still have taken a toll, but not to the same extent because it wouldn’t have had the same potential to nosedive back to childhood. I would have found the situation unacceptable, but once I’d decided there was nothing more to be done, I could’ve let it go and moved on more easily. I wouldn’t have needed to be here.’

‘But you do need to be here, and we do need to focus on the echoes between Lena and your mother, as two women, even though you find that distasteful.’ Miriam looked across the room and nodded, but did not otherwise attempt to soften her blunt statement.

‘Okay. I can’t ignore the broader power relations, because they are important, but let me see.’ Ria let images of her mother jostle with more recent ones of Lena. ‘I’ll start with the physical.’

Miriam nodded.

‘My mother wasn’t a huge woman, I don’t think, although she seemed so to me as a child. I eventually grew taller than her, but she still seemed big. Her body was pear-shaped. Her arms were thick and stuck out from the shoulders and in from the elbows and pumped when she walked. Her legs were stout and she moved like she had something stuck between them. She seemed to stomp rather than walk, and came down heavily on the flats of her feet. She had very little neck and, as long as I can remember, short frizzy grey hair in need of a good wash and comb. She led with her chin.’

Ria thought of her mother stomping, pumping, and jutting. The similarities to Lena were striking, and yet they were more about posture and movement and body language than actual physical characteristics. Others with the same sorts of characteristics could flow with their shape instead of attacking the air with it.

‘That description more or less sums up Lena, too, except her hair was black and unkempt instead of grey.’

‘You’re sounding faintly apologetic, and you haven’t mentioned their faces.’

‘I’m feeling apologetic because I don’t want to buy into a whole lot of stuff about women and body shape. Mum and Lena were both large and imposed their bodies; nothing wrong with that. It’s the aggressive way they did it that’s important rather than the actual shape. I’m trying to separate their behaviour, which I do judge, from their appearance, which I don’t, or at least don’t want to. I did describe Lena’s hair as unkempt, though, and Mum’s as needing a wash; there’s judgement there, I guess. I dislike unclean.’

‘A form of bodyism you haven’t felt compelled to deal with?’

Ria thought about that. Had she bought into the pressures to cleanse and sanitise and deodorise? Probably, at least to some extent, but there was something else as well.

‘I guess so,’ she said, ‘although I think it’s more about associations. Mum was only really physical with us as kids when she was being intimidating, and that went with bad smells – bad breath, smelly hair, acrid sweat, and probably the smell of my own fear mixed in.’ Ria’s thumb and forefinger were compressing the sides of her nose. Her breath was shallow in her throat.

‘Well, smells are important memory triggers.’ Miriam steepled her fingers. ‘Could that have anything to do with the way Lena affected you?’

‘No …’ said Ria, hesitantly. She got the drift, but it didn’t fit. ‘No,’ she said more definitely. She thought of herself backing up in Lena’s office, walking out, away from that charged atmosphere. She could see Lena brandishing papers and hear her thumping the desk. There was no smell linked to her memories, though.

‘I don’t think Lena smelt. I think it’s more that I expected her to because of the way she behaved, rather than the other way around.’

‘Interesting,’ said Miriam. ‘So, what about the faces?’

‘Yes. The faces are important.’ Ria closed her eyes and visualised those two faces, side by side. Again, a shudder ran through her.

‘Except not the faces so much as the expressions. The thing that really freaked me about Mum, and Lena, was the contradictions in their facial expressions. I’ve got a photo of Mum, and if you cover the top half it looks as if she’s smiling, or at least the corners of her mouth are turning the right way. If you cover the bottom half, her eyes would freeze barnacles. Lena was the same.’

Ria rubbed her own eyes and looked around the room. It was reassuringly the same. Comfortable, nondescript furniture, book-lined walls, framed credentials, Miriam’s substantial presence.

‘Eyes are important to you.’ It was a statement from Miriam, not a question.

‘Absolutely. The truth is in eyes, as far as I’m concerned. Mum’s were cold and accusing and pushed you away. Lena’s spoke of anger and a black hole beyond.’

Ria felt sick as she remembered Lena’s fixed stare, particularly the time Ria had turned down the offer of “coordinating” the partnership process. Lena had made this offer as if Ria should be grateful for such largesse. Ria’s eyes had probably told their own story. She had interpreted the offer as reflecting abysmal ignorance of the nature of the process, or as a manoeuvre for control – with Ria as go-between to a docile client group.

‘Their laughter also jarred.’ Ria cupped her hands over her ears. ‘It was derisive, and always seemed to carry a threat of some sort. Someone was going to pay for that sound. I don’t think I ever heard my mother laugh, not really laugh, in a joyful way. Or Lena.’

‘I notice you’ve been rubbing your stomach.’ Miriam was looking towards Ria’s hand, moving rhythmically clockwise.

‘Talking about them does make me feel sick.’ She had been rubbing her stomach a lot over the last months. Connor had commented on it before she had noticed herself. She remembered the cramps as a child when her mother had made that hooting noise that should have been a laugh but wasn’t. It was always accompanied by one of them being told they were stupid or sly or too big for their boots. The hoot would turn to a hiss as ears were cuffed and shoulders shoved. She remembered her friend’s mother showing her how to ease the pain with rubbing. The knots in Ria’s stomach had a long history.

‘On the other hand,’ she said, brightening. ‘I remember the first time I was with a group of women and the room was filled with that great, full-bodied belly-laugh. It was so gutsy and earthy and honest. Wholesome. I felt as if I would swell up and burst. It was so … clean.’

‘Clean, honest, wholesome laughter in clean, honest, wholesome people.’ Miriam cleared her throat. ‘Well, women, actually.’

‘And that’s important – possibly. The contrast. Some of my best, and worst, experiences have been around women. I don’t want to demonise women, or enshrine them either for that matter. I don’t even want to demonise Mum and Lena, really. Except, I didn’t experience their good bits.’

Had she chosen to see them in black and white terms, Ria wondered? Plenty of people, outside the family, particularly the Church fraternity, had told her what a wonderful woman her mother was. Did people say the same about Lena? Members of the board, perhaps, as Simon had once suggested? People with different values seeing through different lenses?

Ria’s head was starting to spin when Miriam spoke again. ‘The contrast is perhaps more about honesty versus dishonesty, or hypocrisy versus transparency, than good women versus bad women,’ she said, in her considered way that invited comment.

‘Yes.’ Ria put the brakes on her speeding thoughts. ‘I think I can handle honest emotion, even anger, although I’m probably more wary of that. Mum and Lena both sometimes had this crazed element to their anger, as if they were totally out of control. Unhinged by rage, and no one to stop the rampage. I found that terrifying, as an adult and as a child. Someone in that state seems totally unpredictable. At other times, with them both, their anger had a dramatic element as if they knew they could control people through it and used it that way. I found that despicable.’

‘Let me try to pull some of this together,’ said Miriam. ‘Both of these women – your mother as mother, Lena as executive director – were in positions of relative power. Their structural power, and their femaleness, are both important to the connections between them, but they’re also separate dimensions; and their physical similarities are about style rather than resemblance. The core connection seems to lie in the way you saw them using their power.’

Miriam still had her mouth open, as if to say more, but Ria jumped in.

‘Abusing it, more like. They used their positions to get what they wanted, and then masked the abuse in terms of the responsibilities of their positions. Mum was always going on about how she had to do things for our own good. Lena rattled on about accountability to the board and funding bodies. Passing the buck.’ Ria’s voice was getting louder and faster. She wanted to get up and pace the room. Instead, she slumped in her chair.

‘Mm,’ said Miriam, managing to convey deep understanding in that simple sound. ‘Let’s take a couple of minute’s time out.’

They sat in silence. Ria closed her eyes and imagined the anger sliding out of her, transforming into energy she could then draw back. She would have to find a project – use that energy instead of letting it ferment inside her, sapping her strength.

‘That seems better,’ said Miriam, after Ria had stood up, shaken her arms and legs and resettled. ‘I’m not about to question your anger. But, one of the things I’ve noticed about this sort of situation is the way the protagonists get reduced to one-dimensional cutouts. You’ve suggested yourself your view could be restricted. And that may or may not be important to the way you deal with the effects. My guess is, though, Lena and your mother may have had an equally one-dimensional view of you. And, I wonder if you could guess what that might be?’

‘That’s easy,’ said Ria, not needing time to think. ‘Brazen hussy would sum up Mum’s view. Insubordinate troublemaker would sum up Lena’s. And, yes, I’m sure they’d both say I was asking for it. Mum certainly made that clear.’

‘So, you’re not really surprised by their reactions?’

That needed more thought. ‘Up to a point, no,’ said Ria eventually. ‘As far as they were concerned, I guess I represented a problem needing to be dealt with. But, there was no need for the frenzy, particularly in Lena’s case. I would’ve left. I could see we couldn’t work together. But she persisted way beyond the limits of dealing with her problem, almost like a game she enjoyed and wanted to pursue for its own sake. That’s what sickened me, all that unnecessary blood in the water.’

‘And your mother?’

Ria replied slowly, forming her thoughts as she went. ‘I don’t think Mum enjoyed herself. She was driven all right, but not by pleasure. Pleasure was sinful. Perhaps fear? Perhaps that’s what drove her. Fear for her own and our immortal souls?’

Ria suddenly felt deeply, immeasurably sad. She looked at Miriam’s sombre face.

*    *    *

‘Hi, Ri. Any more egg crises over your way?’

‘Huh? Oh, Annie. No, we’re pretty much back on track now, thanks partly to you. What’re you up to?

‘Not a lot. Life’s a bit humdrum over here.’

‘I find that hard to believe, with your busy life between work and children and grandchildren.’

‘Why don’t you come over and find out for yourself? We’d all love to see you, you know.’

‘I might just do that before I get started on whatever happens next. But, I have got a question for you, Annie.’

‘Yep?’

‘It’s come up in trying to sort out the Mum-Lena thing. At the moment, I’m wondering how much of Mum’s crazy behaviour might have been because she was really spooked – by the threat of going to hell, or us going to hell?’

‘I think that probably explains a lot. And it’s funny you should ask that now, Ri. I’ve been talking to Joseph, who’s been going through old papers left over after Mum died. He’s come across their marriage certificate and, to his amazement, and mine, he’s discovered it was dated just four months before he was born!’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Cross my heart … You can check with Jo if you don’t believe me.’

‘Of course I believe you. No wonder she got so frenzied about our “morals”; terrified of history repeating itself. Oh, dear …’

‘Exactly. All that angst over a bit of premarital sex.’

‘Another thing the Catholic Church has a lot to answer for.’

‘I guess so, although “having to get married” would’ve been socially unacceptable even for non-Catholics in their day.’

‘You’re right, but it does help to understand a bit about what was going on for her.’

‘Sounds like you’re working on forgiveness, Ri?’

‘Maybe. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Okay, so tell me about these plans for the future.’

‘Nothing as concrete as plans, but certainly possibilities. John’s talking about setting up a company. I could manage the business side of that, and have a private practice as part of it. I’ve also been getting requests to do casual lecturing and consulting at universities, and I want to do some volunteer work, probably with asylum seekers.’

‘We’ve got detention centres over here, you know.’

‘They’re all over the place.’

‘You don’t think the government’s right about this, Ri?’

‘No, and for you to be asking that question, Annie, it sounds like I need to give you an earbashing about the rights of people fleeing persecution to seek asylum – and we’re talking men, women, children, and babies here, you know, from grossly oppressive regimes.’

‘Well, okay, you can bring me up to speed next time we have a long call.’

‘I feel strongly about this.’

‘Sounds like you’re getting some of your oompapa back, Ri.’

‘Maybe, but I’m not quite sorted enough, yet, to be working professionally. In the meantime, I’ve been talking to an academic about doing some formal study of feminist theory. I’ve done heaps of reading over the journey, much of which provided the basis for the partnership process. She reckons I could write up the rise and fall of that process, put it into a theoretical framework, and I’d have the thesis component for a postgrad qual.’

‘So, you’ll be Doctor Doctor Ria?’

‘No, it’d be a minor thesis in a course work Masters, not another doctorate. But you can call me Doctor Doctor if you like, Annie.’

‘Sure, pipsqueak. Good luck with it all, though. It does sound to me like the sap’s starting to rise again.’

*    *    *

Ria’s head was busy for the rest of the day, jumping from one thing to the next. She wanted to firm up plans for the future, but knew she wasn’t quite ready. She had to let go of her mother, and the unfinished business with Lena first, but wasn’t quite ready for that either. She had to come to grips with the effects of these two women on her self. There was stuff she had to let go of and stuff she had to hang on to. It was all still a bit scrambled.

She was sitting at Bruno’s, enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon sun on her back, waiting for Clare who must have been held up. Deep in thought, she was unaware she was nodding and humming to herself.

‘Can anyone join this conversation?’ Clare was heading towards her, chair in hand. ‘That looks delicious,’ she said – licking her lips at the tray the waiter was setting on the table – bending to give Ria a hug.

‘They do the best baklava here.’ Ria pulled Clare’s chair to the table. ‘You really need to get into the bath to eat it, though. But,’ she added, with a dramatic flourish, ‘I’ve brought a wet washcloth.’

‘You are getting better; back to your intimidatingly organised self.’ Clare’s attempt at exasperation was undone by the gleam in her eyes.

‘I knew you’d be pleased. And, I’ll even let you wipe your own face.’

‘Wow. So, what have you been sitting here thinking about, looking so serious?’

‘Lots of things,’ said Ria, sliding her finger through the honey oozing under her pastry. ‘But the one I was mumbling to myself about when you arrived was the “just world” myth.’

‘Right,’ said Clare, holding up sticky fingers one by one as she spoke. ‘The world is just and fair. Good things happen to good people. Bad things happen, but only to bad people.’ She licked each finger carefully. ‘So, what are you making of it?’

‘That’s what’s confusing,’ said Ria. ‘I know it’s a myth. I know the world’s not just and fair. I know the other things don’t follow. But, somehow that knowing doesn’t stop me feeling bad because bad things have happened to me.’ She shook her head, feeling like shaking herself. ‘Why doesn’t my feeling match my knowing?’ she asked, frowning at her baklava.

‘Because Lena did her work too well?’ Clare wiped her fingers, one by one, with the damp washcloth.

‘True,’ said Ria. ‘And my mother. And the Catholic Church. At one level I didn’t buy into their views, and at another I did. That’s the level I have to unravel. It can’t be done by an organisation or the church or the law or the state or the media. I know why I was driven through all those systems with Lena. I was fighting for justice, of course, and I’d do that again. But, at a personal level, I wanted someone to look at the facts and say she was wrong. Because if she wasn’t wrong then it must be me that was wrong. In other words, I was looking for someone to give me back my self. My not-bad self.’

‘Yeah, it’s been hard to watch, and you got so furious with anyone who suggested you couldn’t really expect satisfaction from any organisation or establishment system.’

‘I know, and I’m sorry. I think I was furious about being confronted with something I knew but didn’t want to know. I knew I couldn’t expect anything but what I got – the stonewalling, buckpassing, stony complacent silences, and when all else failed, the destructive personal savaging; the myth being perpetuated. But every time I fronted up to some different committee, commission, pillar of the community I wanted to hope it would make a difference. Each time my hopes were dashed, the myth became more seductive, particularly the bit about bad things happening to bad people. So regressive, when I think about it, like calling bad things God’s punishment when I was a kid.’

‘Mm,’ said Clare, rubbing her chin. ‘You were pretty rattled for a while. But then, it was a full-on attack, enough to wobble anyone even without the echoes.’

Ria agreed but at the same time knew it was up to her to reclaim her sense of self. ‘Anyway, enough of this deep and meaningful, tell me about this lurch into capitalism of yours.’

‘Ah, comrade. You should see it, though, Ria. It’s so cute and exciting. One decent sized bedroom, separate comfortable living area, compact kitchen and bathroom, up two flights of stairs, overlooking a well kept park. Not quite as good as this one, no Bruno’s, but lots of native evergreens, plenty of flowers and birds.’

‘When do you get possession?’

‘Settlement was today, believe it or not, much sooner than we expected. I can pick up the keys any time before seven o’clock tonight.’

‘What on earth are you doing here then?’

‘Waiting to know if you’re coming to have the grand tour.’

‘Let’s go. We can pick up the champagne on the way.’ Clare’s partner was away on an extended work gig. Ria didn’t want to emphasise the point, but it seemed important to mark the occasion in some way.

‘Why don’t you give John a ring and get him and the kids to join us?’ Clare asked, gathering up her bag and keys.

‘I will. He might pick up some supplies too. What do you fancy?’

‘Let the kids decide.’

‘Okay. You’ll still have to have a proper housewarming, though.’

‘Of course, and we’ll expect you to be there, fully restored to fighting spirit.’

‘Yes’m.’

*    *    *

That was the best night we’ve had for a while, Ria was thinking to herself the following afternoon. The kids really enjoyed it. It was good to have something to celebrate.

She was just in from a swim, feeling soft in the joints and relatively relaxed. Evening was drawing in, and she was lying on a couch in the downstairs living room with the lights off, absorbing, without really seeing, the back garden. She enjoyed the colours and variety, liked having flowers and vegetables to pick, but knew she didn’t fully appreciate the work involved. John and Cady were the gardeners in the family.

Her eyelids were drooping, and she could feel herself zoning out when she heard a clatter on the stairs behind her. It sounded like a child clip-clopping in high-heeled shoes on wooden floorboards. She could sense someone coming into the room, trying not to make a noise. At first she could just make out a shape looking down at her as she lay on the couch. It didn’t feel threatening or sinister, just blurred and not quite solid. It must be Cady, wanting something.

The figure hovered and gradually became clearer. Her red hair was silky and curly and flowed over her shoulders. It was caught up at the front in brown barrettes and two waves swept away from a middle parting. Her face was smooth and clear, her eyes solemn and dark. She was wearing a mauve cotton dress with a Peter Pan collar and deeper mauve flowers embroidered on the bodice. Green feathery leaves cradled the flowers and stretched up towards the lace-edged collar.

Ria could not see the bottom of the dress, or the legs, but knew the gathered skirt would finish at mid calf above white socks and black patent leather shoes; highly polished, but not high-heeled.

Her eyes were too heavy to keep open, but she could still sense that patient presence. She started to feel uneasy about taking so long to respond. She lifted her hand to make connection. Nothing happened. She flailed around, expecting to feel her hand gripped. Nothing again. That brought her eyes open.

She looked up, expecting to see Cady. The space was empty. She reached across and flicked on a reading lamp. She was alone in the room, the house quiet behind her.

Chapter 19

‘It’s been an eventful week.’ Ria settled back into what she was starting to think of as her chair in Miriam’s room. She no longer perched on the edge, contemplating flight. She wasn’t about to get too comfortable, though.

‘It looks as if something’s happened. You seem clearer, less taut. I’m not sure …’ Miriam was studying Ria through narrowed eyes.

‘I want to talk about a dream, and also what happened afterwards.’

‘Go on,’ said Miriam quietly. She was composed and ready to listen, something she did with seemingly effortless grace. Ria knew what it took to sustain that level of concentration, so didn’t take it for granted.

She recounted the dream, remembering the feeling of dazed confusion as she had stared around the empty room. She had been so sure Cady must have been there with her.

‘It probably took a while to re-orient,’ suggested Miriam.

‘Yes.’ Ria rubbed her eyes, remembering. ‘Cady wasn’t even home. She was out at cubs with John. Connor was out with friends, so I was actually alone in the house. I lay there for a while and let things settle.

‘It gradually dawned on me the stairs have carpet on them. They aren’t wooden, so I couldn’t have heard high heels clattering down them, on an adult or a child. And then, the idea of Cady in that dress was ludicrous. Cady hasn’t worn a dress since she stamped all over a floral item as a toddler. Her hair is red, but nothing like my image. And that quiet standing wasn’t her style. She’d be much more likely to squeeze in beside me and cuddle me awake.’

Ria smiled as she thought about Cady.

‘Anyway, you knew it wasn’t her,’ Miriam prompted.

‘No, it wasn’t her. I was still fuzzy from waking up, but I finally grasped it must’ve been a dream. A very vivid dream, but nonetheless a dream. I knew it wasn’t about Cady.

‘And here’s the punch line. By some leap, which I didn’t question at the time, and don’t understand now, I knew it was my mother in the dream.’

Miriam’s head jerked up. She nodded, encouraging Ria to continue.

‘And I knew what the dream was telling me. My mother, I saw in that moment was a little girl who’d been forced to grow up too soon. She was a little girl in adult shoes she couldn’t manage at the time and never really grew into comfortably.’

Clop-clop-scuff-pause. Scuff-clop-clop. The sounds had been loud in the still evening. Even now, Ria could imagine how the little red-haired girl would have teetered as she bent to grip the banister leading down the stairs.

‘It made such sense,’ she continued, ‘because when my mother was twelve, her father died. She was the eldest of six children, and her mother ran a corner grocery. Mum had to leave school and more or less run the family and the household and help in the store.’

‘A lot of responsibility for a little girl.’ Miriam continued Ria’s thoughts. ‘Especially when you realise she wasn’t much older than your own daughter is now.’

‘Exactly,’ agreed Ria. ‘Too much responsibility, not enough skills, and no chance to develop them. She couldn’t handle the situation, I imagine, so tried to manage by force. She must’ve got on top of things, but I shudder to think how. Looking back, I can see her brothers and sisters were scared of her, even as aging adults. That’s why, I guess, they didn’t try to do anything about the way she behaved in our family, even though they knew about it.

‘From her childhood-as-adult, she married my father, and had all us kids – plus miscarriages. Eight live children. She was forty-three when she had me. Not a life I’d choose, but she didn’t have much choice, and even less opportunity to critique her own patterns and do the work to change them. She must’ve been an intelligent woman, I think, but uneducated and lacking outlets – apart from honing her skills at controlling everyone around her, including my father.’

‘Some of this I guess you would’ve been aware of before the dream,’ said Miriam. ‘I’m wondering how the dream changed things for you?’

‘It turned her into a person. I’d tried to understand her as a product of her time and culture and religion, and thought I’d succeeded, but it was pretty academic. The dream gave her a history and it moved my heart. I could feel what it meant for her life when her father died. I wanted to take her back and let her have a childhood, let her play and laugh and be irresponsible, and have someone to lovingly brush her hair and make beautiful clothes if that’s what she wanted. Let her grow into adulthood gradually. She was so gentle and patient and undemanding in the dream; loving and lovable, but sad.’

‘A vision of what might have been, instead of what was.’ The slight upward inflection turned Miriam’s statement into a question.

‘Mm, the gap’s hard to bridge. But, after the dream I believed, deep inside herself, my mother would’ve liked to be loving but didn’t know how. I felt her sorrow, and knew she needed me to forgive her, so she could be at peace. Why my forgiveness in particular, when there were eight of us, I don’t know. But that was my understanding of the dream, and I accepted it, almost as a gift.’

‘A gift of opportunity.’ Miriam’s sparse comment conveyed her understanding.

‘That’s the way I saw it,’ said Ria, grateful for not having to explain herself further. ‘Of course I had to forgive her. How could I resist the plea of a little girl like that?’

‘As you said, she was clever, your mother.’

The two women sat in comfortable silence, each with a long line of mothers behind them, and each with a daughter of her own.

*    *    *

‘You mentioned something that happened afterwards,’ said Miriam, bringing them back to the book-lined room.

‘I couldn’t talk about it for a couple of days,’ said Ria, remembering the way the dream had consumed her, but seemed too private to talk about. ‘Then I realised it was the anniversary of her birthday. That was last Friday. I decided to give her a party, something I bet she’d never had – a birthday party and farewell party rolled into one.

‘I cleaned the front room, picked flowers, went out and bought all the usual stuff – cake, candles, balloons, chips, lollies, soft drink. The cake was the sort of thing Mum would’ve scorned as wanton extravagance: four tiers of alternating vanilla and chocolate sponge, layered with fresh strawberries and custard cream, complete with chocolate collar and “Happy Birthday” plaque; totally decadent, and quite delicious.

‘Just before John came home, and while the kids were busy in other parts of the house, I got everything organised. I invited them all in, explained about the dream and what I was doing. They were great, got right into it, the chips and lollies and drinks, and blowing out the candles after we sang “Happy Birthday” accompanied by Connor’s guitar.

‘I proposed a toast to my mother and made a speech. I acknowledged the hardness of her early life, the difficulties of bringing up eight children with little money and no support. I said I wished we could’ve spoken openly to each other so we might have found peace before she died. I said I forgave her, even though I knew that was odd, because in her lifetime she would never have admitted needing forgiveness. I told her it was time for her to rest in peace.’

Ria stopped talking, remembering how John and her own children had hugged her as she cried – for her mother, her father, James, Boofy, herself, anyone and everyone who had ever been unhappy, alone, sick, abused. She had felt cleansed by those tears. No one had tried to stop her or asked her to explain. She was still enjoying the sense of something lifting from her that night.

At the same time, hearing the story as she retold it, her own scepticism poked at the edges of inner peace. Visions appearing in dreams, messages from the dead, birthday parties for fantasy figures – was she losing it altogether?

Miriam laughed. ‘You’ve got such a transparent face, Ria,’ she said, ‘and right now it’s glowing with embarrassment. You might pride yourself on being hard-nosed, but for this once at least, could you just pay attention to the outcome and forget the means? It sounds like something’s been resolved here.’

‘It does feel like it,’ said Ria. ‘But, you’re right. I am embarrassed. I am uncertain. I’ve thought before I had it all worked out and turned out to be wrong.’

‘You feel it now. You thought it before.’ Miriam emphasised the distinction. ‘Perhaps there’s a critical difference,’ she added, unnecessarily.

‘Maybe,’ said Ria, not quite sharing Miriam’s confidence. ‘I sure don’t want to be wheeled out in a nursing home, still trying to deal with my mother.’

‘Trust your feeling,’ suggested Miriam. ‘It seems as if you’ve put your mother to rest … as distinct from pushing her out.’

It did seem to Ria as if her mother had finally moved out of her space. Time would tell. She shifted in her chair, stretching her legs to ease the pressure of sitting so long.

*    *    *

‘Which leaves Lena,’ Miriam said, reclaiming Ria’s attention from the state of her sitting muscles. ‘Does any of the forgiveness extend to her?’

‘No … With Mum, it’s been about feeling I’ve come to some real understanding of how she became who she was, and why she might have been so frenzied about religion. It’s also because of the feeling from the dream that she wanted forgiveness.

‘None of that applies to Lena, and I guess I’m not really interested in trying to understand her. I don’t need to; I’m not connected to her as I was to my mother, and I don’t believe she’d be interested in apologising. She’d only do that, I think, if she was backed into a corner, and I haven’t noticed anyone rushing to do that. In any case, it’d be a Clayton’s apology, like a politician.

‘I don’t hate her either. I hate what she did and the effects on me and other people, but not her. That’d be too personal, as if I knew her. I can’t even begin to imagine what she might think and feel in private moments.’

‘Mm.’ Miriam was squeezing her underlip with the fingers of her right hand. She let her hand drop to her lap as she started to speak. ‘That all sounds fine, although for someone with your interest in power relations, I do wonder you aren’t more curious about what drives a person like Lena. Why would she want that sort of power?’

‘Do you think I’m trying to short-circuit here?’

‘Are you?’

‘I suppose I’m not really in to guessing people’s motives. I know that may sound odd, given the story I’ve put together about Mum without being able to talk to her. But she’s dead, and even if I’m wrong, it doesn’t do any harm and helps me.

‘Of course I’m interested, in a general way, in why people want that sort of power. And why, when they get it, so many end up abusing it. Even more importantly, I’m interested in why it’s so hard to bring power to account. The more power people have, the less accountable they seem to be, and that’s totally a-about as far as I’m concerned. It allows megalomania to bloat. People think they can do what they like – and do.’

‘Whoa!’ Miriam raised her hands in a stop sign. ‘Well, there’s a cosmic challenge – to analyse the drive for power, its practices, and failures of accountability.’

‘At a more prosaic level,’ she continued, ‘your mother and Lena do seem to have pulled apart from each other. You’ve demystified your mother, and discovered additional layers to her character. Lena remains a mystery, but one you’re saying you’re not particularly interested in unravelling.’

‘Pretty much. I’m not interested in Lena as an individual, just as a representative of a class – the class with structural power, of one sort or another.’

*    *    *

Ria walked down the road to the park she had noticed on previous visits to Miriam; a green wedge in dense suburbia. Deciduous trees were losing their leaves, forming a crunchy carpet, and a grapevine spread deep red leaves across one side fence. The sparse playground equipment was deserted of children, but five men hunched over a game of cards at a picnic table, and a woman dangled swollen legs over a bench and hugged bulging shopping bags to her sides.

There was a vacant bench next to the coin-operated barbecue. Ria made her way towards it, scattering birds as they scratched and squabbled over picnickers’ scraps. She propped herself on the bench, unwrapped a lolly, and let her thoughts wander.

She knew there were probably things she needed to learn from events associated with The Portal, but was content to allow whatever they might be to unfold in their own way and time. As far as her childhood was concerned, she considered she had learnt a lot from it, but some aspects needed more thought.

Her mother she had seen as a hypocrite. She hated hypocrisy. Her father she had seen as weak. She had despised that. But her mother had also been strong-willed, determined, courageous in a sense, passionate in her own way. Her father had been reflective, a thinker, if you could get him out of his wife’s shadow. Even their campaigning for the DLP was a legacy of sorts. They had fought for what they believed in.

Had she focused too much on the negative, overlooked the positives from her early years?

There were certainly good times with James and Annette, and her father as well. They had surely provided some sort of buffer against stormy times, and a basis from which to grow.

Scenes, half-scenes, and snapshots paraded across the screen of her memory: Her father, knee-deep in seawater – endlessly patient – teaching her to swim. James silently offering his last piece of chewey after she’d fallen from her bike. Helping her mother make jam. Golden syrup dumplings on a cold winter’s night – so yummy. Did her mother make those? Sitting by the side of a country track with her father, eating Jonathan apples straight from the orchard trees. James teaching her to play hopscotch. Sharing sixpence worth of chips with him straight from the newspaper wrapping. Her father’s trilby hurtling through the air as she met him from the tram. Cuddling James after he had been in trouble, her heart bursting. Making sticky toffee and honeycomb with Annette for school fete days. Annette holding her hands and telling her earnestly they would always have each other. James eating her porridge to get her out of trouble on the last day of his life.

So many memories, some long forgotten, many of them good. Before James died. Other images; after James died. She looked around the park; the old men still playing cards, the woman gone. The sun was setting. It was getting cold.

Another memory flashed, receded, flashed again, took shape out of the deep recesses. It came from a time after James died, maybe weeks, maybe months.

*    *    *

Ria had been sent home from school with stomach ache. She let herself quietly into the back of the house, intending to creep into her room without being caught by her mother who would bark at her for being a sook. She was making her way across the back verandah when a muffled sound from the kitchen stopped her in her tracks. It came again, a crooning wail like an animal in pain. Should she ignore it? Could she?

Retracing her steps, she reached for the kitchen door handle, but couldn’t turn it. She wiped sweaty palms down the sides of her tunic and tried again. The handle turned, the door pushed inwards, the sound intensified. She peered cautiously into the gloomy kitchen.

Hands still gripping the door, she stood immobilised by the sight of her mother. She was crouched in the corner, hugging her knees, head bent into them, her whole body rocking to the rhythm of her wailing.

Her mother on the floor. Her mother making that noise. Her mother crying? No! Her mother didn’t cry. Ever. She said kids who cried needed to be given something to cry about. She boxed their ears if they cried and told them to pull their socks up.

What was happening now? Her mother was shuddering, all over her body, panting and groaning, maybe saying something. What was she saying, between those other noises? Ria crept further into the kitchen and bent in her mother’s direction, straining to make sense of the claggy sounds.

The wailing started again, punctuated by moans from the crouching mound of her mother.

Ria stood, barely breathing. What to do? Approach her mother? Creep away quietly and come back noisily? Creep away quietly and go to her room? Surely her mother must have noticed she was no longer alone. Maybe she needed a cup of tea? A hug? Ria cleared her throat and stepped across the lino as heavily as she could. Her mother’s head shot up from her lap and cracked against the corner cupboard. She lurched to her feet and rushed towards Ria, flapping her arms in a shooing motion.

‘Gedout! Gedout! Gedout!’ she shrieked, stabbing her finger towards the door. ‘Get out!’ she yelled again, lurching towards Ria, her face blotched and smeared, eyes smudged without her glasses. Ria edged around her on shaking legs and scuttled towards her room. She clutched her stomach and hid her head under the pillow.

She heard the kitchen door bang.

*    *    *

How had she forgotten that incident for so long? Ria wondered, as she pulled herself to her feet in the now empty park. At the time, Ria had been aware her mother was angry, but had she also sensed anguish? Perhaps. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have dreamt of offering hugs, would she? Her mother repelled affection, and discouraged what she called “mauling” amongst her children as well.

Her mother had pushed her away. Her father had too. That had hurt even more. Her parents had lived out their grief in isolated despair, of little apparent comfort to each other and none to their remaining children. Ria could not imagine their harsh, punitive religion providing much solace. Blame, threat and fear, but not solace.

She sat down again, thinking about her own drive to connect with pain, to touch it in some way that would ease the isolation. She had always thought she was responding to her own experiences, trying to provide for others what she wished someone had provided for her, but it was more complex than that. She had a dawning sense it might also have something to do with her parents, and whatever it was she had managed to glean of their inner lives in that long ago childhood. She needed to think about it some more, let understanding emerge. She didn’t know quite what a ten year old was capable of, but thought it was probably a whole lot more than they are sometimes given credit for.

‘And where does that take you?’ she could hear Miriam ask in her genuinely curious way.

Ria sat for a while longer.

‘I think,’ she responded, under her breath, to the Miriam now perched on her shoulder, ‘it takes me back to that sliver of light, and penetrating the gloom until the past fits together in all its complexity and contradictions.’

‘The “past” being your childhood, but what about The Portal and Lena?’

‘I’ll take a rain check.’

‘Looks more like a blackout to me. You know, if you ever wanted something like your partnership process to really work …’

‘I know. I’d need to get inside the headspace of the powerful, find a way of working with them more effectively, really getting them on side instead of going along with tokenistic platitudes. I didn’t take on the responsibility of educating them properly. I didn’t think I should have to. I thought they should take it on for themselves. But I can see, now, that wasn’t good enough.’

Ria put her head in her hands.

‘Perhaps I can pass the baton to the next generation?’

Chapter 20

‘Isn’t Melbourne marvellous?’ Simon hugged his overcoat. ‘That wind’s straight off the ice, and it’s supposed to be spring.’

Ria huddled closer to Jenny who was trying, unsuccessfully, to use her umbrella as a windbreak. They were standing outside Trades Hall on a Friday evening leading up to the Federal election, the one in which border protection was a major platform.

Australia had won international disapproval for its policies on asylum seekers, particularly mandatory detention in prison-like conditions, often in remote and inhospitable parts of the country. These same policies had, however, won favour with large segments of a voting population whose collective fear of invasion by sea was enlivened by media stories of people smugglers (inherently unscrupulous), boat people (inaccurately labelled as illegals and queue jumpers), and terrorists (who might infiltrate our borders on one of those rickety boats).

Dissenters against the policies, and the politics of fear, were out on the streets on this bleak afternoon in peaceful protest.

‘You know this makes us latté sippers.’ Jenny had given up on the umbrella, but had wound a scarf around her face so her voice was muffled.

Ria dug her hands deep into the pockets of her winter overcoat. ‘I could kill a latté right now.’

‘Better still, a hot chocolate, with at least four marshmallows.’ Jenny smacked her lips, sucking the scarf inwards.

‘I wonder if that makes you more, or less, elitist than me?’

‘No arguments, girls.’ Simon held up his index finger. ‘What we really need, I think, is a good stiff vodka, or a whisky – something to warm the blood.’

The march was now entering the mall of the central business district. ‘We are not girls, Simon,’ said Ria, po-faced, ‘but when we get to the end, we should be able to find somewhere that’ll meet all our wants.’

‘Sounds good to me. You know what—’ Whatever it was Jenny had been about to say was cut short as she skipped sideways to avoid a caricature of The Man of Steel on stilts.

‘What was your puzzle, Jenny?’ Simon asked when they found their way back together again.

‘I just don’t get how locking people up is supposed to protect our borders.’

‘Good point, although the propaganda’s been pretty powerful. Depressing, isn’t it?’ Simon steered them around another caricature, this time the Minister for Immigration. ‘My puzzle’s even more basic,’ he continued, when they were three-abreast again. ‘In all the debate, and protest, it never comes up: Why do we need to protect our borders? And why is it, apparently, so self-evident it seems weird to even ask the question?’

‘That’s a barbecue-stopper, Simon.’ Ria scratched her head through her ski hat. ‘Interesting, though. I wonder if the Prime Minister’s ever been asked?’

They marched on in thoughtful silence. Suddenly, a tap on Ria’s shoulder and a stage whisper behind her ear.

‘Courier delivery for you Ma’am.’

Ria spun around so quickly she almost collided with the person behind her. Simon and Jenny also turned.

Three mouths gaped.

‘Omigod! Joel?’ Ria was staring into the face of a clean-shaven, dreadlock-less, but still strikingly fit and well-muscled Joel, or Joel lookalike, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved t-shirt. Did he never make concessions to the weather?

Joel grinned his recognisable crinkle-eyed grin.

‘What sort of boot camp have you just been let out of, without even a long sleeve shirt between you and this gale?’

‘You look as if you should be wearing a suit, swinging a briefcase.’

‘You’re not here as a spy for the immigration department, are you?’

‘Eh, eh, eh. Is that the way to greet someone you haven’t seen for well over a year?’

The march had moved on without them, and they were being beckoned to the footpath by the tag-end of the police escort.

Once off the road, Ria was the first to find her voice. ‘Let’s start again, shall we? It’s amazing to see you, again, Joel, and as long as you’ll forgive us staring while we get used to the new look, I suggest we all find somewhere to catch up.’

‘Follow me.’ Joel led them around the nearest corner to a restaurant with a cosy lounge area and a “breakfast all day” sign in the window. ‘Their breakfast makes great dinner’ he said, indicating to the waiter they would like to sit in the lounge area.

For the next hour they talked non-stop, when their mouths weren’t full, about how their lives had moved on since The Portal. They wouldn’t want to go through it again, they agreed, but had all survived.

Joel was working as a photographer for a lefty magazine. And, no, they hadn’t made him get his hair cut. He had become involved with asylum seekers because a friend of his was a lawyer doing pro bono work. Joel was doing background research and also, occasionally, going with asylum seekers to hearings and meetings involved in their applications for refugee status. He wanted to be a support, not a liability; hence the haircut.

‘Fair enough,’ said Jenny, ‘although it’s a bit sad.’ She went on to talk about her own new work in housing services, and her activism for asylum seekers. She had been involved in organising today’s rally, and was going to be run off her feet leading up to the election.

‘Do you think it’s a fait accompli, Jen?’ Simon asked, looking worried.

‘Pretty much. No real alternative, no conviction in the Opposition.’

‘At least you’re trying to do something. You guys make me feel guilty.’

‘You do plenty, Simon.’ Ria raised her latté in a toast. ‘Some of us might not even be on our feet if you didn’t do the backstage stuff you do. And if you’re interested, you could come along with me to the detention centre any time.’

‘I might do that. How do you find it?’

‘Confronting. Depressing. Heart-wrenching.’ Ria felt a wave of emotion, remembering some of the things she had found most shocking on her first visits to immigration detention.

‘It’s a body-blow, particularly at first, all the security and metal detectors, barbed wire, electrified fences, people-as-numbers, guards in uniform, although I think they’re officially called officers, having to remove your shoes or belt or watch, being frisked, having to spell the names of the people you’re visiting, correctly, to be allowed in, and that’s not trivial, when the names are unfamiliar and might be forty characters long, having to unpack stuff you take in for inspection, no open packets allowed, being made to unwrap chocolate to remove the foil, having to decide what you’ll take through and what you’ll discard because, say, you’ve brought a bag of grapes, and the new rule is you’re only allowed to take in six pieces of fruit.

‘Lots of power-play. I shudder to think what it’s like for the asylum seekers given what it’s like for visitors. The first couple of times I went, I think it took me about twenty four hours to come back to some sort of equilibrium.

‘At the same time, people do seem to appreciate being visited. I had one guy say to me one day: “Visitor come, know exist, not just number.” That was important.’

‘Phew,’ said Simon, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. ‘Not exactly your pleasant Sunday arvo. But, I’m up for it. This Sunday’s good for me.’

‘Good on you both.’ Jenny smiled encouragement, although her eyes had their characteristic glint. ‘It’s a grim situation, and it makes me so mad it’s being done in our name, and with apparently overwhelming popular support.’

‘Exactly.’

No one spoke for several minutes.

‘What else are you up to, Ria?’ Joel asked eventually.

All the plans she had outlined to Annette earlier in the year had come to some sort of fruition, Ria realised, as she provided a rundown of her Women’s Studies program, thesis now completed, the family company, up and running, private practice, and work at universities.

‘What I want to know, though, Joel, is how you knew about the courier deliveries?’

‘You didn’t need to be Einstein. Some of us were pretty angry, you know, about what went down, and kept eyes peeled and ears to the ground. Not much passed us by.’

‘I’m sure it didn’t.’

‘There’d be quite a few people, including myself, who’d be interested in reading your thesis, given I gather it’s about the partnership process.’

‘Sure. Although …’ Ria’s mouth curved into a half-smile. ‘It is confidential.’

Simultaneous hoots and guffaws brought heads turning from other tables.

‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ Joel was standing up, raising his glass in victory salute. ‘No, probably not,’ he said, bouncing back onto the lounge. ‘You being you – Doctor Straight-Ass.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ Ria clinked Joel’s glass. ‘No joke. I got advice from the university lawyer and decided to take up the option of keeping it off the library shelves for the foreseeable future – I think it’s four years, maybe seven, I’m not absolutely sure. Anyway, it’ll be out of harm’s way for a while. Or, out of litigation’s way, perhaps I should say. At the moment, it’s still under examination.’

‘But, there might be a copy that falls off the back of a truck?’

‘Could happen.’

‘You’re becoming corrupt, Ria.’ Joel’s glass shot up again. ‘And I take credit for that.’ He beamed at each of them. ‘Gosh, I’m glad I came out today. You know, guys, the only thing we need to do to round off this most instructive afternoon is …’ He looked around the table, grinning like a goblin. ‘Write some memos,’ he boomed, bringing more stares from other diners.

‘Yes!’ Four hands shot in the air.

Joel dug in his bag and produced a legal pad, plopping it in front of Ria together with a ballpoint pen. ‘We’ll make a list. That’s your job, Ria.’

‘Let’s go.’

‘Lena.’

‘Ruth.’

‘Other managers.’

‘Board.’

‘Church executives.’

‘Industrial Relations Commission.’

‘Colleagues and clients.’

‘Families, friends, and support people.’

‘Okay, start writing.’ Joel handed around scraps of paper, each headed with an addressee. ‘Five minutes per memo.’

They scribbled busily, extra orders of muffins and coffee assisting the process. A small pile accumulated in the middle of the table. Joel folded each one, handing them to Ria, all but the last two marked “CONFIDENTIAL”. ‘You should take these, Ria. We can leave you to deal with them.’

‘Trust me,’ she said.

*    *    *

Ria gathered the scraps of paper, placing them carefully in a compartment of her bag. This had been the best afternoon. It had been the first time she had participated in public protest since running foul of The Portal, and it felt like coming home. She could feel the tug of her spirit loosening the web of despair.

It had been great catching up with the others, particularly Joel, whom she hadn’t seen for … How long was it since that conversation about the fallout from the memo? Fifteen months? Eighteen months since Lena first started at The Portal? Lots of water … At least they could laugh about it now, even if the humour was on the black side.

Ria headed purposefully home – to water her maidenhair and pack her swimming bag for the next day.

And talk to her family about a new puppy.

Table of Contents

PART ONE: 1999 – 2000

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

PART TWO: 1959 – 1960

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

PART THREE: 2000 – 2001

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20