4

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

I have the window seat so I can see the southern suburbs of Sydney lit by the early morning sun as we land. I grab a bottle of Mum’s favourite perfume, some cigarettes (for Patricia Tyndale), and a bottle each of Vodka and Cointreau (for cocktails with Tanya) at the duty free before going through Immigration and Customs.

I direct the cab to Tanya’s flat. It has a view of Clovelly Beach. As I walk through her door, Tanya eyes my duty free. ‘We can put that to good use,’ she says.

I drop my bags in her hallway and notice that there is mucky white stuff stuck to the back of the front door. I look at Tanya for an explanation. ‘I threw his dinner at him. It’s mashed potato,’ she shrugs. ‘The chicken and bok choy didn’t stick as well.’

We walk down the hill to the little cafes. It is almost nine o’clock by the time our breakfast arrives.

‘You look pale,’ I tell Tanya as she stares at her food.

She looks up at me with a weak smile. ‘That is a terrible thing to say to an Aborigine.’

We scan the beach from where we are sitting. There are plenty of people around, those who do not need or do not want to work.

‘Are you going to tell me about it?’ I understand Tanya so well and know now is the time to ask her about Terry.

‘Well,’ she starts, ‘you told me that by asking him outright I would know if something was wrong. So I asked him what he was doing out so late, did he think I was stupid? And he said, “If you must know, I have been seeing someone else.” Like I was asking for it, you know?’ She bites her lip. She looks away for a moment, then turning her gaze back to me, she continues, ‘And it turns out it is some barmaid from the Crown. That’s when I threw the meal I had cooked for him the night before. He ducked and it sprayed all over the wall. “Well,” he said very coolly, “if that’s how you want it, I guess I’ll leave.” As though I was the one humping some young chicky after the pub closed!’

‘Oh, Tanya. I’m so sorry.’

‘And that was it. He left. He said he was in love with Tiffany - that’s her name, can you believe it?’

‘Coward,’ I say. ‘He’s a coward.’

‘He didn’t have the guts to tell me himself that he was a two-timing rat bastard. I had to figure it out for myself. And then he uses my anger as the excuse to leave. I’ve just finished stuffing all his clothes into plastic garbage bags and I’m going to put them on the front porch.’

‘Men,’ I say. ‘They’re all the same.’ Tanya and I continue to scan the beach watching a jogger run by, a couple walking their dog, mothers and their small armies of children. I think again of my father and our last conversation. ‘You know, I think my dad is having an affair too. He’s not home when I call late at night. From time to time I hear these whispers, snippets of rumours, innuendo. Enough to make me suspect but not enough evidence to say for sure.’

‘There’s something about your dad,’ Tanya says with a teary, wry smile. ‘You know what? I have to admit, I’ve always fancied him. Tall, dark, handsome, passionate …’

‘Tanya! ’ I hit her arm playfully and give her a pretend-angry look.

‘Don’t worry. Your mother is the only person who could put up with him. She’s a saint. I once saw a documentary about lions and how there is an alpha male in each of the prides who the female lions are all attracted to. There were also beta males, other males who were happy enough to just follow the alpha males. Your dad’s an alpha male and you can’t be near him without at least a fleeting sense of being secure and safe.’

‘Well, that may be but if women throw themselves at him, he doesn’t have to respond. Jamie wouldn’t have.’

‘Yes. Now Jamie is definitely a beta male.’ I wonder if I’ve just detected a weary sigh in her voice. ‘But I thought we weren’t going to talk about him anymore,’ she quickly adds.

It is one in the afternoon before I open the door to my parents’ house. I quietly put my bags down and walk towards the back where I can hear the radio playing. Mum is seated at the kitchen table, working. She looks soft with her blonde hair looped in a loose bun. Gentle, innocent, like her name - Beth Ann. She peers at me through her glasses as I walk in as though she is waiting for her eyes to adjust.

‘Darling,’ she cries, shocked, when she finally believes that it is actually me standing before her. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I thought I’d surprise you.’

She rises and rushes to embrace me. ‘I can’t believe it’s you.’ She pulls away and looks at me again. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?’

‘You completely stress out when I fly so I thought I’d save you the anxiety. I hoped it would be a nice surprise for you. And Dad.’

‘Your father’s at work but he’ll be so thrilled to see you.’

‘Yeah,’ I say dismissively, but she plants the seed in my head that I should wander over to the Legal Service and surprise him in person.

But first I let Mum make me a sandwich. She also sets out two Tim Tams (‘one for each hand’) for me on a little matching saucer. Just like when I was a kid. It makes me realise how much I miss her fussing over me when I am so far away.

She fills me in on things that have happened since I’ve been away, tells me Mrs O’Conner over the road had been rushed to hospital, Annie Davies her colleague from the prison literacy program finally got engaged to ‘that nice schoolteacher’, Nan was promising to come for a visit soon, my cousin Erin is pregnant - again. These are the events that keep her world turning and, as I listen, I think how little everything has really changed since I was last sitting in Mum’s kitchen listening to all her news. I want to interrupt her and tell her that I went to see Spike Lee and Oliver Stone talk about film-making, that I’ve done a creative writing class with Joyce Carol Oates and that since I read Mary Douglas’s How Institutions Think I have not thought of law reform in the same way. But I am silent and smile at her while I sip my tea.

After our lunch, Mum resumes the preparation for her class, apologetic because she has to rush. ‘If only you had given me some warning,’ she chastises and kisses me on the forehead.

*

The Legal Service that Dad runs takes up two adjoining terrace houses that have been renovated to make a single labyrinth. As I walk into the reception area I see Carol Turner perched at her desk. She squeals when she sees me.

‘Hey, Sistergirl.’

She rushes around the desk and gives me a bear hug. I am almost swallowed by her size. She smells of talcum powder.

‘Did you bring me back anything from the States? Something dark chocolate and rich. Like Denzel Washington?’

‘No. He said he was going to leave it to Valentine’s Day to fly in and surprise you.’ I clap my hand over my mouth as if I’ve let the cat out of the bag.

She laughs her deep throaty laugh. ‘Speaking of surprises, your dad didn’t tell me you were back.’

I wink at her. ‘He doesn’t know.’

I walk down the corridor towards his office at the back. The walls are covered with posters from various educational campaigns. Say no to drugs. Say no to violence. Get your child immunised. Say yes to education. Demand a treaty. Stand up for your rights. I like the poster that has Patricia Tyndale on it, her arms folded across her chest and her eyes resting accusingly on me. The poster tells me to enrol to vote. ‘We fought hard for our rights,’ it says. ‘It’s your responsibility to exercise them.’

When I walk into Dad’s office, I see a young woman perched on his desk. She’s on the side where his chair is and he is sitting down, leaning back, looking up into her face. He is animated. I am almost through the doorway before he notices me. He stands too quickly and the look of immediate astonishment on his face, followed quickly by the slow comprehension that it is his daughter who’s just walked in, causes the woman to turn her head towards me.

‘Surprise,’ I say flatly.

‘Simone!’ he exclaims, and pushes past the young woman to give me a hug. I stand in his embrace, unresponsive. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I decided to come home and check up on things.’

I look at the young woman as I say this, recall the way her body had curved towards my father and I give her my best disapproving look. She looks at me expectantly and I turn to my father. I glance at the fly on his trousers to make my point.

‘I want you to meet Rachel Miles. She is the new legal officer here.’

‘Hi,’ she says, holding out her hand. I take it limply.

‘You came and spoke to our Indigenous People and the Law class about the Stolen Generations. I thought your talk was insightful. Inspiring.’ She is not gushing when she says this, not patronising. She has long dark hair and, I grudgingly admit, is captivating to look at. Her intelligence shows clearly on her face. In other circumstances, I might have really liked her.

‘Well, what are you up to, Dad?’ I say, hoping that he will understand the accusation.

‘I’ll leave you two to catch up then,’ Rachel says as she leaves, giving my father an extra moment to compose himself before he answers me.

I stare at her as she walks away, down the hall.

‘I’m glad you’re here, Princess,’ Dad says. ‘How’s my first born?’

I ignore his attempt at playful banter and keep staring at Rachel’s receding form. When she turns the corner at the end of the hall, I slowly turn towards him with my eyebrows raised.

‘She’s a good kid,’ he says, as though I was cranky with her, not him. ‘And you of all people should be happy that we can finally recruit Aboriginal people into the legal officer positions.’