‘I could of gone with Dad or Wendy, you know,’ Rosie says as she and Emma stand together at the corner of Collins and Spring Streets. ‘Dad said I could go with him to the station, or with Wendy, or to the gardens with Aunty Phyl. He let me choose so I could of gone with any of them.’
‘Could have, not could of,’ Emma says. ‘Well I’m glad you chose me. It’s much nicer than being here on my own. But there might be a lot of people around so don’t get lost, and don’t wander off.’ For Emma, coming so late to the campaign and largely unaware of the number of volunteers and the work that has gone into organising the rally, the fear is that no one will turn up. It’s only in the last week, as the lists of volunteers and their responsibilities have been distributed together with the running sheets for the rally, that she’s come to realise that it’s been planned like a military operation and, according to Alyssa, Lexie has been the driving force behind that. Now she’s dreading the possibility of a few straggling protesters standing in a great empty space, making the whole thing look ridiculous.
Rosie heaves a huge sigh. ‘I know, Mum,’ she says. ‘But I picked to come with you ’cos Dad said I’d get to wear one of these things . . . what’s it called?’
‘It’s a visibility vest, so people can see you clearly. That’s why it’s this lime green colour.’
‘I like this colour,’ Rosie says, ‘it sort of makes my teeth hurt. Does it make your teeth hurt?’
Emma runs her tongue thoughtfully across her teeth. ‘No, no I don’t think it does.’
‘Well anyway, it’s pretty boring here, so now I’ve got my invisible vest can I go and stay with Aunty Phyl and help with the hot dogs?’
‘Would you rather do that?’
‘Yes I would, if I still get to keep the vest.’
Emma laughs. ‘You can keep the vest. But if you want to go we’d best go now before it gets too crowded.’
They cross the street into the park and walk down the path towards the place where Phyllida is organising refreshments.
‘Aunty Phyl,’ Rosie calls, letting go of Emma’s hand and running ahead. ‘Can I stay with you?’
‘Of course you can,’ Phyllida says, looking up at Emma as she arrives alongside her. ‘If Mummy says it’s all right. And if you’re going to help me. I need someone to unpack the paper napkins and fold them up for the hot dogs.’
‘I can do that,’ Rosie says, ‘it’s boring over there.’
‘She’s probably better here anyway,’ Emma says. ‘I’m concerned about losing her if a crowd builds up. I’ll meet you both back here later.’
She watches as Phyllida and Rosie open the carton of napkins and then with a final wave she turns away and starts to walk back, past the other stalls: coffee and soft drinks, the campaign t-shirts and leaflets, and the petitions, and largest of all – the display stand with its backboards covered with coloured photographs. Emma slows down and walks closer to look at the photographs: chorus lines of little girls with teased hair and spray-tans, dressed and made up like miniature sex goddesses for beauty pageants, satin corsets and padded sequinned bras, frilly knickers peeking out below short frilly skirts above fishnet stockings. And more little girls in coloured leotards over obviously padded bras, winding their legs and bodies around poles. Tiny tots in can-can dresses bent double with their backs to the camera, gazing upside down at the viewer through their open legs. And Bunnies – Bunnies everywhere, in body hugging satin costumes, the beauty and innocence of their faces heartbreaking in comparison with the distortion of their appearance. Emma stares now at the pictures, sickened by the memory of Rosie dressed like this, doing pelvic thrusts to the beat of a drum. Rage rises in her belly and she turns quickly away and heads back to her marshalling point.
‘Just checking you’re okay,’ Laurence says, catching up with her as she crosses the street. ‘They’ll be moving off soon. According to Karen and Lucy there’s a big crowd at the starting point.’ He takes his mobile from his pocket and shows it to her. ‘Karen just took this picture and sent it to me.’
Emma takes the phone and peers at the image of a mass of people armed with placards and banners. ‘That’s amazing,’ Emma says. ‘There must be, what, a hundred? Hundred and fifty?’
Laurence smiles and closes his phone. ‘Four, perhaps five hundred,’ he says, ‘and there are people waiting in the side streets. Anyway, my darling, I have to go back and talk Alyssa out of her nerves, but I just wanted to see that you’re okay.’
‘I’m okay,’ Emma says, ‘and I’m so glad I’m here.’ She leans closer and kisses him on the cheek.
Laurence looks at her. He smiles, squeezes her hand and returns the kiss, but for a moment he seems incapable of speech. ‘Better get on then,’ he says, clearing his throat as he turns to walk away.
Emma watches as he stops at the kerb and looks both ways, although the street is closed to traffic. She smiles; he is so familiar and yet she feels she is only just beginning to know him. ‘Take care,’ she calls. And Laurence turns and waves and walks on across the street and up the steps.
‘She’s here, Patrick, over there with Dad and Alyssa,’ Lexie says. ‘Stop worrying. She’ll be fine.’
‘Lexie’s right,’ Margot says. ‘Whatever’s happening for Dot she’s the consummate professional. No one out there will ever know that she has any thought in her head other than what she’s saying.’ She can feel the tension emanating from him; his need to talk to Dot is palpable.
Patrick nods, although his expression indicates that he’s not convinced. ‘If she stuffs it up it’ll be my fault,’ he says. ‘I should’ve waited but I had to ask her about Laurence, I had to know. Imagine what it would have meant for us if he’d been . . .’
‘But he wasn’t,’ Lexie says, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘He isn’t your father. We’ve been through all this, Patrick. You had a perfect right and good cause to tell her when you did. God knows why she’s being so cagey about your father, but you’re not responsible for her if she stuffs up – not that I think for one minute that she will. Now can you go and fix that thing on the stage she’s supposed to stand on, it’s not high enough. Alyssa’s one is fine but Dot’s so short they won’t be able to see her behind the lectern.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Margot says. She knows Lexie’s really caught up in what’s happening but she thinks Patrick needs more in the way of reassurance. ‘This stuff is in Dot’s blood,’ she tells him as he crouches over Dot’s stand. ‘And once she’s out there in front of the crowd she’ll fly. It’s Alyssa I’m worried about, she’s freaking out about facing so many people. But you don’t need to worry about Dot. She’ll make you proud, I know she will.’
‘I know she’ll make me feel proud,’ Patrick says picking up his tool bag. ‘But will she let me be proud of her, of her being my mother, do you think she’ll ever let me do that?’
Behind the temporary stage Alyssa is vomiting with nerves.
‘I’ll be fine, now. I promise I will,’ she says, straightening up. ‘I won’t let everyone down.’
Up on the stage a local women’s band and people who have skipped the march but come straight to the park are singing along, swaying to the music. And further off, the first of the marchers have already made their way through the gate.
‘I know,’ Margot says, ‘you’ll be brilliant.’ She hands her a bottle of water and Alyssa gulps at it and wipes her face on a paper towel. ‘You need to get close to the stage now, Alyssa, with Dot, so you’re both ready to go when the rest of the crowd is in place.’ And she steers her back towards the stage.
The park seems to be filling at speed now and there is still a long line of marchers stretching back down the street. Margot, standing on the steps at the side of the stage, looks out across the growing crowd. There are people everywhere, hundreds of people, shifting and swaying. Women of all ages, some with homemade banners, some with small children in pushers, men carrying toddlers on their shoulders, a contingent of people in wheelchairs and elderly couples with posters mounted on card and fixed to poles. Near the front of the crowd she spots a former Premier who is signing someone’s banner, and further along a couple of members of Parliament, a senator, and a couple of young women – actors from a soap opera, surrounded by delighted fans. The music, the sight of people surging in, the voices – talking, laughing, singing – bring a lump to her throat. She remembers other times – thirty, forty years ago – other battles that were won and some that were lost and the spirit of the past mingles with this moment and fires her blood. She looks across to the side of the stage where Dot stands, their eyes meet and the past flows like a sine wave between them, and Margot knows she’s right – Dot will be fine – she will light the flame as she has done so many times before. And when that is done she will be ready to face Patrick, his questions and the challenge he represents to everything she believes about herself.
It’s better now that she’s here, Dot thinks, now that the adrenaline is coursing through her blood. When Alyssa had seen the size of the crowd she had vomited with fear and Dot remembered what that was like, the feeling that you might faint with sheer terror, the parched throat, the spinning head.
‘Remember what I told you,’ she’d said, gripping Alyssa’s hand when Margot had brought her back to the stage. ‘Let them see the passion not the terror. Let them see the woman who started all this, let them see you, Alyssa. They’re here because of what you’ve done, don’t forget it for a minute.’
And Alyssa, white and shaking, had hugged her so hard that Dot thought her ribs were going to crack. The good thing about the need to perform, she thinks now, is that it drives out everything else. It takes over and there is no space for fear or sadness, guilt or shame, or any of the other emotions she has battled with through the night. She is here to do a job and for a while at least there is this and only this. Dot takes a deep breath and as she steps up to the lectern there is a cheer and she waves to the crowd and gazes out across the vast landscape of faces and banners, of waving arms and placards, and close by the television cameras have started to roll.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she says. ‘Thanks for taking the time and making the effort to come here this morning to say something about what’s happening to our daughters and granddaughters; to little girls, and teenagers, to young women, to all women. What we’re talking about here today is the monstrous virus of sexual exploitation that is invading the lives of innocent children, infecting the way they are seen and valued, and infecting the way they see and value themselves. It’s about dressing little girls as sexually enhanced women and encouraging them to compete with each other for approval and attention. It’s about smothering childhood and corrupting innocence, in the service of consumerism. It’s about grooming girls in ways that set them up to become victims of sexual abuse, and to be trivialised, and then dismissed when they pass their use-by date. We need your support, we need you to channel your anger and your energy, and if you stay with us this morning, we’ll tell you just what you can do and how you can do it.’
There are shouts of encouragement from a small group in the middle and it spreads now, building into a roar of support, of cheers, of waves and whistles and pumping fists, and she knows she is on her way. And as she looks around waiting for the cheers to stop so she can continue, she sees him standing by the sound system, arms folded, watching her, intent, straight faced, and as he catches her eye he gives her an almost imperceptible nod, and Dot knows that it has never been more important to get it right and make it work than it is today.