City Hall, Thursday midday

Hello dears,

I MUST APOLOGISE for breaking off so suddenly last time. Luckily the bus stop is just outside the door so, even if I am running late, I can usually catch it. Bus drivers are really lovely aren’t they? If they see a Lady of the Loo hurrying to get to the stop before they must drive away, these wonderful bus drivers just wait a few seconds so we don’t get left behind.

I said before that the Loo is a place where the rules are of God, but please don’t mistake me now. I am not going to allow you to think the Loo is a regimented area with severe requirements and penalties for transgressions, like being banished from the Garden of Eden.

No, the Ladies Loo is much more a New Testament place, where the spirit, not the letter, of the law prevails. Often I observe here an exercise of freedom absolutely unknown on the outside. Furthermore, the evidences of generosity and compassion and forgiveness I see leave me in no doubt about the true nature of the Loo itself and those who supervise it day by day. As you read on you will discover exactly what I mean.

I FOUND out about the freedom of the Loo early one Saturday morning shortly after I started coming regularly to the Loo. It was a very hot day and I was tired, not having slept much the night before. I had brought my newspaper with me and intended to relax as I read it. I must tell you that I just can’t read on the bus. The words bounce around in front of me and I start to feel dizzy.

So all I could think of as I descended that staircase was the lovely cup of tea I would have when I got to my table and sat down to read. Without even hesitating I walked right up to the Tea Counter, my 25 cents ready. Alas. There was no one serving at the counter and all the cups had been put away. Then I saw the sign: CLOSED. I was taken aback. This friendly place, with no tea on a Saturday morning, I thought to myself. As there was no one about to ask what had gone wrong, I looked for an explanation. I found it on the sign on the blue wall: TEA COUNTER OPEN MONDAYS TO FRIDAYS 7.30 am to 11 pm. No mention at all of Saturdays.

Closed. I had to sit down with my dry mouth and my tired eyes, to read the newspaper unassisted by a cup of lovely tea. I must confess that I considered the closure of the Tea Counter on Saturday mornings most un-Australian and not of God.

With black musings on my brain, I made my way through the employment columns of the paper. It is good to look at what jobs are going with all these people looking for them, and I always say a little prayer over each one so the right person will match up with the right job. It’s a special ministry of mine, which I do even in difficult circumstances with no tea.

At any rate, I had almost finished when a Lady wearing one of those big pinafore-style aprons walked up, carrying two cups of tea. The Lord has seen my need, I thought, and I smiled at this unexpected angel of mercy coming in my direction. A cup for me, and one for her to keep me company. There were no other Ladies in the Loo at the time. I was therefore surprised when she walked right past and disappeared behind the Left Luggage bureau, which is also painted blue.

Then it occurred to me that she was waiting on the servants of the Lord in that place, and that on Saturdays they come before all others, for it says in Scripture, The last shall be first and the first last. In this way I understood that the rule about no tea on Saturdays was not rigidly enforced, but made allowances for those who were faithfully at work even when the shops were shut and no luggage would be left.

ANOTHER EXAMPLE of the special freedoms of the Loo occurs to me as I mention the Left Luggage bureau. You realise, I’m sure, that one of the rules of society beyond the walls of the Loo is that Ladies must, when seated, keep their knees together. Not in the Loo. That restriction on one’s liberty to relax doesn’t intrude on us. I understood that point one day when I saw a little Lady seated, quite sprawled out and at total ease, beneath the Left Luggage sign. What I recall particularly about her were her stockings rolled up and kept in place by those elastics you can fix up for the purpose.

At the time I realised I hadn’t seen rolls at the tops of stockings for ages, probably due in part to the unfortunate era of the miniskirt, when stockings were out, but most of all because of the false and uncomfortable modesties we must observe in the company of men, either present or expected shortly. We do waste so much time keeping ourselves all pinned out like butterflies on a board, just to prevent being caught unawares by a passing gentleman. Well, not in the Loo. We are free to be ourselves, for ourselves, by ourselves, as some theologians say. I remember as well that the Lady with the rolled stockings had a glass eye and a tooled leather handbag and turquoise beads at her neck.

SPEAKING OF APPEARANCES, I couldn’t help noticing that the Avon Lady is back again today. She is chatting quietly with one of the Pink Ladies, Sheila, as before. Sheila prepares two cups of tea and, leaving her post at the Tea Counter, comes around the barrier to a table over by the far wall, where she and the Avon Lady can chat in peace. The Avon Lady sets out her samples on the table. I watch as Sheila picks up a tube of lipstick from the Avon display pack. She tries it on and admires the effect in the little mirror supplied by the Avon representative. Then she selects a second tube of lip colour and tries it on her wrist. The two Ladies chat, and sip their tea. The Avon Lady points to the first selection her prospective customer made, and nods approvingly. Another try-on. This time it’s the turquoise eye shadow. Sheila shakes her head; evidently turquoise is not her colour. Then the Avon Lady proposes testing more of the face creams, as she did on her previous visit. Sheila agrees, but doesn’t settle on any particular cream. So they return to the lipsticks. Money changes hands and, with a smile and a promise to come again, the Avon Lady rises. She walks across the room and enters the Sanitation Area. Sheila picks up the Avon catalogue left on the table, and drops it into her apron pocket.

Shirl is here again today. She has entrusted her saxophone and her bag of posters to the Left Luggage, and has carried her scones and tea to a table near the telephones. She sips, and stares into the distance. Perhaps she recognises me, but she makes no sign.

I notice Maddie here too, sitting off to one side, stirring her cup of tea. She always wears a hat – black felt for winter and cream straw for summer. I see she has brought her gloves and, as usual, she has draped them over the clasp of her handbag. She is about to start on her plate of scones with jam and cream. Clearly she is preoccupied with her own thoughts and wants to be left alone. I don’t wish to be too forward and do something quite out of place here, like waving and offering to join a person. We don’t want to be joined. We want peace.

Maddie is reading the obituary page of the newspaper. She studies the obituary pages so she can attend funerals.

‘You never really know a person until you go to their funeral,’ she explained one day. ‘I knew someone who had a lovely voice and sang in the choir,’ she said, ‘but we didn’t until the funeral that he once got hold of the collection plate and made off with the money! You just never know,’ Maddie explained.

One day when I was visiting Maddie, I noticed that Chrissie was seated at the kitchen table, sketching an image on a page at the back of her school project book. When Maddie asked what the picture was about, Chrissie explained she was drawing a picture of God.

Maddie looked more closely at the image and asked, ‘Why is God wearing glasses?’

Chrissie explained, ‘The teacher said God sees everything we do, so we must be good. That’s why I think He must have glasses on, don’t you, Mum? Because he is so far away.’

There I go again, letting my thoughts wander. Just look at the time, already nearly 4 o’clock. I spy Alison hurrying down the stairs. I turn and go back down the stairs out of curiosity. As before, she heads straight for the Sanitation Area, schoolbag in hand. Then, after a few minutes, she emerges like a butterfly out of a cocoon, dressed in a gore-cut skirt, twin set and pearls. Pearls? Has she borrowed them from her mother? Little Alison? What is going on?

She looks too grown up. Alison is carrying a briefcase plus her bag. No evidence of her school uniform. She marches straight over to the Left Luggage, checks her school bag and proceeds elegantly up the stairs, briefcase in hand.

I follow. I must know what is happening. And now I begin to understand. As I stand at the top of the stairs, just inside the door to the Ladies Loo, I see Alison making her way straight to the Wallace Bishop corner, diagonally opposite City Hall on Albert Street.

I continue watching. A young man, also carrying a briefcase, is standing on that corner, obviously waiting for Alison. She greets him with a little wave and hurries to join him. I follow. Together they walk in the direction of Queen Street and disappear downstairs into De Brazil’s, I believe. At least I think that’s where they’ve gone. I am stunned: Alison friendly with a young man? Dining out in a restaurant that they say has a strip show upstairs late at night? I can’t believe it. She’s just a schoolgirl. Then again, she is in her final year.

I’m late. Must hurry back. The 5C3 awaits.

Mavis