Muscles straining, lungs burning, Yvonne pushed herself to one last burst of effort and flung herself over the finish line.
It took several yards for her momentum to slow and when it did she sat on the ground to catch her breath, only to pull herself upright a few moments later to shake off the weariness. The actual result of the race, though, that was another matter. That would take much longer to shake off.
She wiped at her forehead to pull the sweat from her skin as she headed back to the finish line. The indignation burned in her belly. She had come second, a respectable result, but not the one she had aimed for.
The little red ribbon the teachers pinned to her track uniform seemed like a badge of shame. Red was for runners-up. She wanted the coveted blue, the mark of a winner, not the scarlet flag of not-quite-good-enough.
Yvonne put on her best smile, though, as the winners were announced. She had promised her mother to do that, no matter what the result was, because good girls always smiled - even when disappointed.
Most regional schools had a paddock nearby for people's horses and Yvonne's primary school was no exception. The track had been set up in this field; flat enough for such a purpose and marked out with white paint and coloured flags. Along one side of the field was a grassy bank, upon which the collected students and teachers of three different schools now sat and cheered, along with a few scattered parents who had come to wish their children well. It was not the first inter-school sports day that Yvonne had attended but it was the first she had been brave enough to compete in.
Enough of a breeze blew so that it fluttered and snapped the school flags that flew above each collection of children, but it failed to lift the suffocating summer heat, stirring the air around like an oven. The grass was baked the crispy brown-yellow of Sunday roast potatoes and the Australian sun beat down like a hammer.
The clean blue and white of her school's flag - Millsborough State Primary, the hosting school of the sports day - called to her like a beacon.
The year was 1963 and Yvonne Walter was nine years old. She was a quiet girl, more fond of running around the track than chatting to her peers. She liked to feel the sunlight on her skin, faintly olive thanks to an Italian grandmother and lightly burnt from the unforgiving weather. It gave her some measure of satisfaction to feel her ponytail, jet black and curled naturally into ringlets, bouncing against her shoulders. Her hazel eyes were keen and ever so slightly long-sighted.
Yvonne was a gangly girl, whippet-thin from running, taller by a full hand than most of her fellow students. Many of the girls in her class already called her a stick figure and, far worse, Weird Walter. Going near people only seemed to make it worse and so, with a child's simple logic, she avoided others when she could.
That was why, when she arrived at her school team's banner for a check-in with the captain and P.E. teacher, she made her exit quickly. Yvonne nodded as Mr Collins told her that second place was fairly good, not too bad, 'as long as you tried your best, Walter', and then gave her permission to sit under the trees for a while.
She jogged off toward the windbreak that stretched along a third of the paddock's perimeter, a line of tall, old pine trees that blocked the view of the field from the closest of the school rooms. Plenty of children climbed in those branches when it was recess and lunch time but now, thankfully, it was quiet.
The dirt underneath her backside made a soft paf sound as she sat down heavily, breathing in the cool air of the shade. The quiet gave Yvonne a chance for peace in which to berate herself properly for not winning the race.
'That's a nice ribbon,' came a voice, breaking into her self-critical reverie. Yvonne sat up nervously; she had thought the cool shade to be empty, apart from sticks and dirt.
She looked into the pleasant round face of a short girl about her own age wearing the uniform of Ashfield Primary School, one of the visiting competitors. The green tartan dress seemed far better than the hand-me-downs Yvonne had inherited from her older sister, Deborah. It was a normal uniform, not a sports outfit, the clothes of a spectator.
What drew Yvonne's attention most was the hat crammed down on the girl's head. It was wide-brimmed and bore Ashfield's colours - green and grey - but looked two sizes too big and was fastened underneath with a rather serious-looking knot.
'Hello,' the girl tried again, 'I said that's a nice ribbon.'
'I, uh,' Yvonne stuttered, unsure how to proceed.
This girl was technically The Enemy, though the way Mr Collins had talked to them about The Enemy she had been led to believe they were a lot nastier than this girl seemed to be. Yvonne wondered if spectators were The Enemy or whether that just applied to competing athletes.
'Thanks?' she tried.
This seemed to satisfy the behatted girl, who nodded curtly, the brim bobbing up and down a little comically. Noticing Yvonne's stare she tugged at the thing with a sulky expression.
'It's a stupid hat. I shouldn't have to wear it but the teachers said to.' The girl's voice was heavy with annoyance.
'Why'd they say that?' Yvonne asked, curious but uncertain as to whether she should be.
'I did a thing to my hair.'
'A thing?'
'And my teacher grabbed me and it left a bruise,' the girl continued, pulling the sleeve of the dress up and showing the distinct yellow-brown of a healing bruise over the bicep, about the size of a grown man's thumb. 'He made me go back home. Mum had to cut my hair, you know.' Her eyes were wide with sincerity. 'They almost didn't let me come to sports day.'
'What did you do to your hair?' Yvonne asked, still not clear what a "thing"' was.
The Ashfield student fidgeted for a few moments. Then, glancing around just in case a dastardly teacher was lurking in wait especially for this moment, she pulled the hat off.
Only a little sun shone through the leaves of the pines above the pair but what little dappled the girl's hair showed it to be a shining, vivid purple. It had been cut close to her head, a rather brutal trim that made her look a little boyish, and the girl's cheeks glowed red with her embarrassment.
'Wow.' Yvonne had never seen anything like it.
'It was that stuff in the bottle,' the girl complained, 'that my Nanna had to make her hair all nice. She's got grey hair because she's old, but she has this stuff in a bottle that makes it nice and I hate my hair, it's all blonde and boring, but I put too much in my hair and then I didn't rinse it out because it was already past bath time and when I woke up it was all over my pillow and my hair was purple and it wasn't my fault,' she finished, apparently without the need to breathe. 'You have lovely hair,' she added as an afterthought, 'all black and shiny. My name's Christine, but I like Chrissy.'
'Uh.' Yvonne considered her options. 'I'm Yvonne. My friends just call me Von.'
'Can I be your friend?' Chrissy asked.
'Um, sure,' Yvonne agreed, pulling herself to her feet.
Chrissy looked up at her, a serious expression on her face, and Yvonne felt nervously like she was being inspected for flaws. Finally, though, the shorter student leaned forward and hugged her around the waist.
'Good,' Chrissy noted, satisfied, 'we're friends.'
After securing Chrissy's hated headgear back into place, the pair sat back down in the shadows for a while, trading stories about life at their schools and their homes. Christine, unlike her new friend, was an only child and her parents were textile workers from a town to the east of Melbourne, while Yvonne came from the south-east. Chrissy liked apples while Von favoured oranges. Yvonne loved track races but Christine adored art. Both of them liked horses and neither of them had one.
Yvonne disliked talking but Chrissy had no problem filling the gap until the taller girl felt like contributing and so, in their own way, the two were well suited. When she had to run races, Yvonne could see Chrissy clapping for her just as she did her fellow Ashfield students and it made her smile. She even won a hurdle race and got a blue ribbon to pin alongside her red one.
The two hugged as the day drew to a close and Yvonne gave Chrissy her address so they could write to one another. They promised they would do so and for two full months the promise held, a letter every week arriving to one or the other.
Over time, however, the letters became increasingly rare and then ceased altogether. Neither could say for sure, even years later, who failed to write back in the end, but it hardly mattered. The letters did stop and the two fell out of contact, as children will, without much thought of it.
Christine Daley leaned into her violin as she played, taut bow drawing out the rich tone of the instrument in a process which, to its player, always seemed a little like magic.
She could feel her violin as if it were a living being - vibrating with its breath, responding to her like a well-trained pet or a dear old friend. Chrissy had put in countless hours of practice and now it seemed as if the two of them were playing together as one.
The final notes played, the last echoes falling away, and Christine lowered the bow as applause filled the silence where her music had been.
She had almost forgotten the crowd of people in the hall beyond those glaring lights up above. Chrissy stood and curtseyed neatly, the applause buoying her, before she quickly stepped off-stage.
She had changed since she was at Ashfield Primary.
Christine was still short for her age but now, at fifteen, she had grown outward as well. She curved at bust and hip, the effect pronounced enough on her five foot, two inch frame that she drew glances every day from her male classmates. Lips had filled into generous shapes, light golden blonde hair spilling down her back, sky blue eyes sparkling and bright.
Her high school teachers worried that the girl's… advanced shape may prompt the boys at her school to tempt her into immoral acts, but boys were not to Chrissy Daley's tastes.
She had worked out when she was thirteen that the growing interest she had in the girls around her echoed their growing fascination in boys. She kept it quiet; rumours flew about the horrible things that the boys did to "sissies and fags" and whatever gay boys were suffering, the lot of a lesbian, she imagined, was unlikely to be any better.
Her music gave her solace, a way to distract herself from the feelings that she knew were forbidden. Her violin was unlikely to get her into trouble. Her mother still remembered that embarrassing hair rinse incident six years ago.
A group passed her in the wings, all hushed giggles and slender limbs, as Christine headed around the side hallway to re-enter the main room from the back, discreetly.
The Grand Victorian Eisteddfod - a word that even the notably intelligent Chrissy had to look up to be able to spell - was a state-wide competition held every year between high schoolers. Someone on the Eisteddfod's organising board had determined that the best time to hold it would be in winter. Christine suspected that it was because they had a sadistic streak and enjoyed watching adolescent children shivering in the local town hall.
Whatever the case, her performance was very well received. She was unsure if she had a chance at winning - there was another solo act that was very good, a rather fat boy with greasy hair and a trumpet - but she felt confident as she made her way toward her school group.
The host had just finished announcing the music section of the Eisteddfod closed and the next section - dance - open.
Her seat was waiting for her when she got back to it, Miss Pomfrey whispering her congratulations. She liked Miss Pomfrey. Truth be told, she had a terrible and secret crush on Miss Pomfrey. It was a silly thing, a teenager's fascination, and she knew it. Her cheeks glowed under the praise, though, and she grinned happily.
'Please welcome,' the host was calling out, 'the students of Millsborough High!'
Chrissy sat up straight. She knew that name. It tickled her memory, teased at her, as five girls ran out on stage and got ready for their act. She hugged her violin case absently as one of them stood up - a full hand higher than the rest. Her heart stopped for a moment and she burst into a grin.
Yvonne was still tall, still as slender as a willow wand and still had that luxurious black hair, held back by a headband and falling about her face to frame it in ringlets. Chrissy's brief childhood friend flowed with a grace that spoke of physical health and long hours of practice. Bend, stretch, step, turn…
Yvonne was good, though not actually very good. Nonetheless, Chrissy only had eyes for the raven-haired teen on stage. If you were to ask her she would have said, without any expertise at all, that Von's dance form was flawless.
'Wow,' she muttered to herself.
What else could she say?
The night was wearing on and the awards were soon to be announced when Chrissy stepped into the women's toilets two steps behind Yvonne.
'Oh, you were just fantastic,' she burst out, 'I loved your act!'
Yvonne stared at her in the mirror above the sinks. There was a flicker of recognition there, Chrissy could see it, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of hurt when the taller girl failed to put a name to her face.
'Um, thanks. Sorry,' she added, heading to a stall.
She was washing her hands when Chrissy finished her business and emerged to do the same.
'You don't remember me.' Chrissy lowered her eyes, focusing on the sink. She was blushing.
'No, I… I do, I think.' Yvonne nodded reassuringly. Chrissy wondered if it were a show to spare her feelings. 'But I just can't remember where from.'
'Well, when we met I was wearing a really stupid hat and my hair was purple.' She lifted a hand to flick her blonde ponytail about, held in place by a strip of deep purple cloth.
There was silence and then Chrissy was almost knocked off her feet, the other girl's arms flung around her.
'Christine! Chrissy! Wow, I had- I never expected…'
The two giggled in place for a few moments as other girls came and went. Nobody threw them an odd glance; meeting old friends at an Eisteddfod was practically par for the course. They were alone again when Yvonne finally released her.
'You grew up,' she remarked, eyes briefly stuck slightly south of Chrissy's collarbones. Von caught her friend's eye and blushed, covering her face with one hand. 'I can't believe I just said that.'
'It's all right, I did,' Christine grinned. 'We both did.'
'Yeah, I suppose, but you grew, um, out more than I did.' Both hands covered her face this time. 'I really said that, didn't I? I'm so stupid. I don't mean you're, um…' Von waved a hand. 'Fat. You're not, not at all, you're gor- uh, I mean, you…'
'Grew some tits?' Chrissy suggested, delighting in the taller girl's hazel eyes widening at this coarse language. 'Yeah, I-'
Miss Pomfrey chose exactly that moment to peek in and call out, 'Chrissy! Two minutes, they're announcing the music winners!'
'Okay, Miss Pomfrey!' Chrissy called back. 'She's my music teacher,' she explained to Yvonne, once the teacher had gone.
'She's, um, really pretty,' Yvonne noted.
Chrissy tilted her head as a thought occurred to her. 'As pretty as me?' she asked, grinning widely as if making a joke. If she gets upset, she reasoned, I can say it was a-
'Um, no,' Von answered, giving Chrissy a look that suggested she were mad if she thought Miss Pomfrey was the prettier. 'Not even close.' She fidgeted and her cheeks began to flame as her ears caught up with what had just come out of her mouth, but Yvonne didn't look away.
There was a pause. Chrissy disliked pauses. They were awkward and she had very little time before she had to go. Her hands moved up, as if of their own accord, and undid the purple fabric holding her hair in place. She folded it up a couple of times as her blonde tresses swam over her shoulders and put it in Yvonne's hand.
'I want you to have this.' She held Yvonne's eyes as she closed the girl's fingers over the fabric. She stood on her toes and kissed the taller girl on the cheek.
'Uh, I…'
'Too late, it's yours,' Chrissy grinned. 'It was great to see you again,' she called, running out the door.
Yvonne stared at the fabric in her hand. Pulling it out to its full length she recognised it as a man's bow tie in deep purple silk. It smelled faintly of flowers.
In a burst of movement and golden blonde hair, the door to the toilets flew open again. Before Yvonne knew what was happening Chrissy had put her hand up, wrapped it around the back of Yvonne's neck and pulled her down a couple of inches, kissing her squarely on the lips.
Time seemed to stop and the world held its breath; Chrissy let the taller girl go but Yvonne did not pull away, not immediately.
Then, in a flurry of colour and noise, Chrissy was gone.
The best thing about working in a regional university town, Yvonne decided, had to be the variety of people.
Getting out of her parents' - or rather, her father's - house as soon as she could was like a cold splash of water on a hot day. She loved her father very dearly but since the accident that had killed her Mum he had grown suffocatingly protective. Now, two years later, life was not going to stop and wait for her to catch up.
So she moved away from Millsborough and found a place in a town called Winston, which was based, for the most part, around its single university. Yvonne found work easily enough at a local cafe, set directly next to the single small supermarket that served the town. She had the feeling her employer, a slightly shifty-looking man named Douglas Barry, had hired her mostly due to her looks, but whatever the reason, she was grateful for the work and he kept his attentions to staring at her legs.
1974 was a good year for the university; it was a good year for all universities. The government's decision to abolish university fees resulted in a vast influx of students, some of them several years out of high school already, and that signalled a boom in towns like Winston.
It looked as if Yvonne's job, as humble as it was, would remain steady - as long as she could keep up.
The cafe was filling up quickly by lunch time. Bored students freed from their morning lectures came in for a toasted sandwich and coffee, a bustling roar of noise compared to the quieter locals who typically came in during the morning.
A quick glance around the cafe showed a new group at table three, set off in a corner near the main window: a party of three students. Two blondes and a brunette, women in bell-bottoms and blouses rather than the more popular short-skirted dresses (like Von's uniform).
It was a good look, Von thought, and was admiring the trio as she headed to their table. Two of them were in heated debate about the current government's approach to women's issues - was Gough Whitlam doing enough? Was he not? - and the third had her nose buried in the menu still.
Yvonne knew that nose. She knew the face it belonged to.
'What can I get you?' she asked brightly as she reached table three, order book already in hand.
'Black coffee,' the first blonde answered immediately, 'and a pie for me.'
'White tea, please,' came the brunette's voice, polite and precise.
Yvonne marked these down and looked to the group's third member. She was still poring over her options.
'How about you, Chrissy?' she asked, keeping her tone as nonchalant as she could.
Christine looked up absently, did a double-take and quite amused her friends as both mouth and eyes made perfect O's.
Introductions were made - the brunette's name was Melinda, the blonde's was Lucy - and greetings were offered. Chrissy, in the end, had white coffee and two sausage rolls. Yvonne took the order, smiled politely and headed off with a bounce in her step.
'You okay, Chrissy?'
'Hmm? Oh, yeah.' Christine nodded to Melinda, still watching Yvonne. 'It's just- That hair tie she's got.'
'The purple one?' asked Lucy, more interested in the debate she and Melinda had been enjoying than Chrissy's childhood friend. 'What about it?'
'I gave it to her years ago. Can't believe she kept it.'
The night was chill when Yvonne left work for the day, stepping into the street and thanking her lucky stars she had remembered to bring stockings to work. Her work outfit did little to protect her legs from the cold.
Chrissy was there, leaning against the wall, waiting for her. Von wondered how long she'd been waiting. An hour? Two? Since they were both nine years old?
'Come for a drink?' the blonde asked casually, without preamble. 'The pub's pretty good. I mean, for a pub.'
'Uh, sure,' Yvonne nodded, 'but I need to go home and change first.'
'Oh. Sure.'
A pause, a few seconds longer than comfortable.
'Want to come along?'
'Sure.'
It felt different, not just due to the five years that had passed, but also because the privacy was a new factor between them. They were no longer in school, no longer living with parents, no longer constrained by the unspoken agreement that showing interest in public might be dangerous.
They took Von's car, a battered little Bluebird already a decade old, though the trip was short. Conversation, though brief, came just as easily then as it did underneath those pine trees years ago.
After the brief tour of Yvonne's little two-bedroom rental home, the blonde mentioned the last time they met.
'Sorry I ran out like that,' she blushed, shaking her head.
'That was my first kiss, you know,' Yvonne admitted, laughing when she saw Chrissy's disbelieving look. 'No, really. It was my last, too, actually.'
'Wow,' Chrissy gasped, drawing closer. 'We've got to change that.'
Her lips were not the way Yvonne remembered, nor as she had dreamed since that Eisteddfod night. They were softer, more skilled, more confident. Chrissy tempted her, teased her with soft nips and touches, arms around the taller girl's neck, bodies pressed together.
She showed Yvonne how to do more than kiss. While Von vacillated between urgent passion and self-conscious nerves the little blonde was patient. Soon her purple blouse was open, then off, generous breasts relieved of their prison-like bra, and Chrissy sighed in pleasure and relief as she guided Von's hands to them.
They didn't get out to the pub that night.
Chrissy missed all of her lectures the next day as the pair lay in Von's bed, exploring one another, making love and falling back into comfortable slumber. Christine was just as fascinated with Yvonne's body - her athletic limbs, the muscles of her back, her petite breasts with their prominent, sensitive nipples - as Von was with Chrissy's generous curves and the blonde tangle of her pubic hair.
Only hunger forced them from their sweet refuge and Yvonne, who had a day off, drove them to the next town over for a late lunch. The place they found was a bit expensive but neither of them cared, buoyed on the thrill of newfound love, their meal more a celebration than mere sustenance.
Though her friends sometimes looked at her lover with thinly-disguised pity, given that the dark-haired woman worked in a variety of small service jobs rather than availing herself of a tertiary education as they were, Chrissy cherished Yvonne like nobody else.
Yvonne, in return, adored Chrissy. It took little time for the two women to move in together, Yvonne bringing in the bulk of the money to support the two of them, but she was happy to do so. Around their home they were open about their love, bringing several friends into their confidence.
Perhaps it was inevitable, then, that less sympathetic minds were to discover the truth about the "housemates".
Chrissy had been sitting in front of the lounge room window only moments before it shattered inward, razor-sharp shards of glass and a chipped brick landing just where she had been.
She had risen to get a drink from the kitchen; if she hadn't done so the pair would have been at the hospital emergency room rather than picking through the remains of Chrissy's textbooks as a small crowd screamed at them from their front lawn.
'Lezzos! Fags! Cunt-lickers!'
'Get the fuck outta town, filthy sluts!'
'Syphilis bitches!'
'Leave our kids alone!'
That last one prompted a roar of anger from the crowd - no matter what, irrespective of logic, common sense or bald facts, homophobes always seemed to conflate homosexuality with child abuse.
The crowd dispersed just before the police showed up, but they didn't seem particularly inclined to help. Von knew that the cops would be more than happy to drag them down to the station given half the chance, and already would have if they'd been men; as it was they combed the house "looking for anything dangerous", but both women knew they were searching for something that they could class as even halfway illegal.
After that they were questioned. Had they done something to anger anyone? Had they seduced someone's wife? Gone too close to someone's kid? Did they owe anyone money for drugs? Every question probed and prodded, made the women more and more aware that the police - or these two officers, at least - were not their friends.
It took longer for the cops to leave than the crowd and as the evening grew late, Yvonne didn't know which she'd been more scared of violence from - the authorities or the vandals who had shattered their quiet haven.
Less than a week had passed when their home was broken into.
Chrissy and Von were out when it happened. Neither was sure how bad it would have been if both - or, worse, only one of them - were home at the time. The entire house had been ransacked, every room turned upside down. Most of their clothes had been ripped and cut, their crappy black-and-white television was in pieces, their crockery decorated the kitchen floor in shards that gleamed like miserable stars in the glow of the kitchen lightbulb.
Even Von's fish tank had been shattered, the tiny bodies of her beloved goldfish mashed into the carpet by heavy stomping shoes. That sight, more than anything, drove Yvonne to tears. Harmless, inoffensive, helpless fish, not just killed but crushed, reduced to unrecognisable smears underfoot - simply because they were hers.
Would Chrissy's body be lying there, broken and mangled, if she had been home? Would her own?
Yvonne sat silently, head in her hands, at the only unbroken kitchen chair, now that the table had been turned the right way up again. Tears speckled the table's surface, ran down her cheeks, stained her fingers with their dejected salt.
'Bastards,' Chrissy growled, stalking back and forth. Pieces of plate and cup crunched under the soles of her boots. 'Fucking bastards. We're not bothering them! We haven't done a fucking thing to any of them-'
'They don't care,' Yvonne answered. Her voice was flat but her shoulders shook with emotion. 'I-if you'd been home-'
'Heyheyhey.' In an instant Chrissy's voice dropped, low and soothing, sliding her arms around her lover and kissing her black hair. 'Don't think like that. We weren't home. It's okay, we're both safe.'
But Yvonne could feel her lover trembling and knew the lie for what it was.
Footsteps and a knock at the door brought them back to the outside world, fear crawling up Yvonne's throat and strangling her breath.
It was a face that they recognised, however, when they reached the door. Yvonne's father took her daughter in her arms and rocked her gently, whispering quiet and reassuring words as Chrissy stood awkwardly nearby.
Christine had met Alan Walter before but this time was different. Circumstances aside, neither woman had come out to their respective parents and it was a tense, tear-stained conversation that felt more like a confession than a casual talk.
To his credit Alan, if he had any misgivings, did not voice them. He simply accepted his daughter's revelation that she did not, in fact, like men and that Chrissy was her girlfriend. He nodded, asked that she be patient with him while he adjusted to the idea, and then he hugged them both.
Christine's parents arrived, then, to a much more volatile meeting.
Annie, Chrissy's mother, had long suspected that her daughter had tastes that she would call "unconventional". The two were close and her daughter's recent happiness, coupled with her obvious disinterest in boys ever since high school, was enough for her to have been wondering for years.
Peter Daley, however, was blindsided by the whole thing - and not happy about it.
'You're a fucking dyke?' he yelled, face growing red. Fists clenched and half raised, he stepped forward, glaring daggers at his only child.
'Peter,' his wife tried, but it was no use.
'Don't even start, Annie. You're not even surprised by this, are you?' Anger may have had hold of his mind but Peter Daley was not blind to his wife's reactions. 'How long've you known? Years, I bet, the two of you fucking laughing behind my back-'
'Mister Daley,' Von began, but that simply made things worse.
'Don't you even fucking look at me, you filthy little whore!' he fumed, pointing a finger directly at her. 'This is all your fault. You and that disgusting pit you call a cunt.'
'Dad!'
'Shut up, Chrissy! Don't you see what she did to you?'
'She made me happy!' Christine yelled right back, her face going as red as her father's. 'Shouldn't that be enough?'
Peter growled and took a step forward, raising a fist. 'Fucking ungrateful bitch, I oughtta-'
As if he'd been expecting this to happen Alan stepped in front of both young women.
'Go ahead,' he suggested, his voice a little too friendly to be safe. 'See what happens.'
He might have been angry, Peter Daley, but he was certainly not suicidal. Alan Walter stood at least four inches taller than him and considerably more broad. After several tense seconds, he stormed out of the broken house and down the street.
Alan glanced at Annie, who shrugged.
'Don't worry, I don't care who's sleeping with whom, as long as there's no rape, kids or animals involved. Sorry about Peter. He'll come around - I hope - but I'd better see to him.' She smiled sympathetically to the girls and uncertain of what else to say, simply left.
Two hours after her father had left, Yvonne sat on the bed with a duffel bag on one side and Chrissy, in tears, on the other.
Christine begged Von to stay, promised to stand by her and protect her, cried her heart out - but Yvonne was resolute.
'This'll keep happening and I can't stand the thought that next time it might not be fish, it might be you,' she told the heartbroken blonde for what seemed like the fiftieth time.
'But if we're together-'
'Then it might be both of us. I don't want to go, Chrissy, but I have to.'
'No! Up in Melbourne -'
'This isn't Melbourne.'
'We can move there!'
'With whose money, Chrissy? Yours?' Yvonne shook her head. 'You'll be lucky if your dad doesn't disown you if I'm around.'
The comment was hardly isolated. Not half an hour ago Yvonne's sister Deborah had called to tell her that she had heard the news. Yvonne was, Deborah proclaimed, dead to her. She had no sister, not any more, and that final click as her sister hung up the phone had broken what was left of Yvonne's hope.
'I don't care if he disowns me,' sniffed Chrissy, trembling all over, pale as a ghost.
'Well you should! He's your Dad! Between Mum dying and Debbie disowning me…' Von stopped, took a breath and let it out as she stood. She hefted the bag onto one shoulder. 'Don't ever underestimate how important family is, Chrissy. Not ever.'
Chrissy slid from the bed to the floor, covering her face with her hands as her stomach, already heavy, seemed to drop away into space.
'You're my family.'
'No.' Yvonne's voice was firm. 'I'm just the dyke who's fucking your life up.'
Chrissy curled up on the floor and sobbed as she heard the front door close. A car door slammed, an engine started and then Yvonne was simply gone.
Melbourne was a riot of colour and sound, cool shadows drawing over the landscape as the sun went down, the moon already hanging full and fat in the darkening sky.
Speculation flew as the year got older as to what, exactly, was going to happen when 1999 drew to a close. Would the world's computers crash, unable to comprehend the year 2000, bringing down banks and aircraft and hospitals? Would it be the apocalyptic turmoil that Prince seemed to hint at in his hit single, a song that seemed to be getting played every fucking hour that year?
Christine Daley was pretty sure that was all bollocks. Mass hysteria, as one of her psychology lecturers had once told her, was an inherently viral phenomenon - the more it spread the quicker it continued to do so, and the more the condition mutated.
She was thinking this as she waited on Elizabeth Street, very near to Flinders Street Station, waiting for a tram to arrive. The conference she had been attending - a unique opportunity for her, attending as a specialist in women's studies as they applied to the field of psychology - was somewhat more boring than she'd expected, so for a few long moments she was unaware of exactly who she sat next to when the tram arrived to let her on.
The vehicle filled with people, all headed out of the central business district, and the tram jerked as it started on its way.
Chrissy did notice the woman who she was seated next to made a special effort not to come into contact with her when the tram began moving. She sighed inwardly. She knew a lot of people looked at her askance - a woman in her mid-40s, one arm decorated with tattoos from shoulder to wrist, several piercings in each ear and one in her lower lip - and it never ceased to irritate her. Sure, she'd put on weight since she was a teenager and was now more voluptuous than simply curvy. Certainly, she'd chosen to wear a mid-thigh dress that showed off her fishnet-clad legs. Of course, she had her hair dyed a vivid purple and wore it in a long mohawk tied back in a loose, messy ponytail.
But she was still a woman, just like any other.
Indignation swelled in her chest and she threw a sour glance at the person next to her.
Rich brown eyes stared back, shame and fear mixing within their depths, framed by shoulder-length black hair.
They agreed, after a tense moment in which both realised that the tram was too full for either of them to change seats or even stand comfortably, that they needed to talk. A cafe along the way drew them in and, over cappuccinos, the women who once were lovers began to chat.
Yvonne was in the city for a class in nutrition, having started a course recently, and was enjoying it. She had filled out over the years, gaining in size around her bust and her backside but far more the latter, giving her a mild pear shape that she was clearly self-conscious about. Chrissy, secretly, thought she looked far too attractive for Chrissy's own good.
She had changed a lot over the years, in fact, and it took a little persuasion for Christine to find out why.
Yvonne was married. Not only was she married but she had two healthy kids, both adults now, a daughter named Emma and a son named Donald. Her surname was Peters now, and after the initial shock of the news, Chrissy guessed that Yvonne was far from happy with the arrangement. The pride and love in her voice when she spoke of her kids was replaced with a flat, careful neutrality when she mentioned her husband, Donovan.
Chrissy's head whirled. Yvonne had shown nothing of interest in men when they were younger. Why, then, the change? She very nearly asked but instead found herself inviting her once-lover out to a bar. 'To unwind,' she said.
Yvonne, who had been on her way back to her hotel apartment, reluctantly agreed.
It wasn't the only lesbian bar in Melbourne and it certainly wasn't the best but it did the trick. Yvonne, nervous to begin with, had never been a heavy drinker and soon was easily too tipsy to keep silent.
'It's just… stupid,' she exclaimed, waving an arm in a gesture too big to be sober. 'I mean he's a nice guy, a great guy an' he loves me, y'know? Really, really loves me, but…'
'But he's got a dick?' Chrissy suggested, ignoring the twinge of jealousy in her chest as Yvonne spoke.
'Noooo, nonono.' Yvonne giggled and covered her face with one hand, embarrassed despite the alcohol.
Christine raised an eyebrow. 'He hasn't got a dick?'
'Oh, he's got a dick all right,' Yvonne giggled again, making a pumping motion with one hand that was as lewd as it was obvious. 'Really nice dick - I mean not fantastic but hey, it does th'job, right?'
'Uh…'
'I just wish it was attached to a woman, that's all. Dicks are fiiiine,' Von drawled, 'just not on men. If we could, y'know, stick 'em on women…'
'We can, they're called dildos.'
'Mmm.' Yvonne looked unconvinced but eventually shook her head, more to clear it than to disagree. 'So c'mon, what about you? You got a girlfriend?'
Chrissy shook her head. 'She dumped me last month.'
'Then she's fuckin' stupid.'
'You dumped me,' Christine pointed out. The pain in her chest was undeniable. No, she thought to herself, I'm not even close to over you, Von.
Yvonne nodded. 'Yep. An' I was fuckin' stupid. Stupid an' scared an'… more stupid.' With that she fell silent and drained her drink, a Tequila Sunrise, before shuffling off her bar stool. 'Come on, fuck talking, I wanna dance. Last time I danced was at my wedding,' she noted, disdain dripping from the word.
They danced. It was awkward at first but then a couple of other woman joined them. One, a brunette young enough to be her daughter, soon had Yvonne backed against a wall. Hands fumbled and bodies pressed as the two kissed and clutched at one another as if they were drowning.
The younger woman's friend walked out soon after slipping Chrissy her number. Both of them were students at Melbourne University and, it turned out, in Yvonne's class. Christine wondered how those lectures would proceed after tonight. Von seemed very interested in what lay under her new friend's skirt.
It confused Christine, therefore, that it was she who ended up at Yvonne's hotel room, instead of the young brunette.
It was as if no time had passed. Yvonne's rather conservative business skirt was on the floor before the door was shut, treating a passing couple to the brief sight of her panty-clad backside. Her suit jacket was across the room and her blouse open in moments.
Christine's hands, fumbling a little through her drunkenness and trembling with anticipation, took three tries to pull Yvonne's bra off. When the woman's breasts fell into view, Chrissy's breath stopped.
She bent her head to suckle and nibble at those hardened nipples, lifting first one breast and then another in hands that seemed to fuse to her flesh, only barely willing to relinquish their newfound prizes as Yvonne desperately pulled Chrissy's clothes off.
Von's hand travelled downward, pulled Chrissy's skirt up, felt the heat and the damp. No panties but a fishnet barrier that tore readily to allow her access, Christine letting out a startled gasp as the threads ripped and then a low moan as Yvonne's fingers slid across the velvet folds which were already slick with excitement. A spike of pleasure as Yvonne found the bar of her clit hood piercing, a muffled growl as the taller woman pulled Chrissy's head hard against one breast, then both of them fell to the floor - hard - attempting to reach the bed.
They were a hungry mess, Chrissy and Von, the latter fuelled by desperation and longing, the former by confusion and anger. It was a potent mix, pushing their emotions higher and their arousal deeper.
For the next hour Yvonne wouldn't let Chrissy get up, running her hands up and down those fishnet-clad legs and staring hard at her lover's eyes as she lapped, licked, sucked and flicked. Fingers slid in to penetrate, breath washed hot and hungry over damp skin, hair slid silky and luxurious in Chrissy's fingers as she clutched at Yvonne's head.
Ecstasy hit. Again. And again.
And…
Again.
Chrissy had to drag Yvonne's head away from her crotch to get her to stop. The nub of her clit was so sensitive that even walking was an ordeal as she pulled Von toward the bedroom… and then it was her turn.
Their lovemaking went on for a long time. When they fell asleep it was in each other's arms, bodies sated and exhausted, the room smelling of sex and sweat.
Chrissy was alone in the bed when she woke up the next day.
For a split second she was furious - Yvonne had just left her there, after that night? - until she heard the shower running.
She eased back in the bed, smelling the two of them together, pleasure and a forgotten love swelling in her heart in a dazed, half-awake state that soon gave way to wakefulness and, with it, genuine anger.
Yvonne had waltzed back into her life and somehow - somehow - dragged her into an affair. As if that were not enough, Yvonne was cheating on a man. She had fucked a man - at least twice - willingly. At least, Christine assumed it was willingly.
She turned it over in her mind but could not parse it. Was she bisexual? Was this night with Chrissy just a fling? Was Chrissy to be discarded again when all this was over?
No, Christine was not yet over Yvonne and, laying there in bed, realised that she never wanted to be over her. She wanted Yvonne back, all of her, all for herself… but as much as the taller woman claimed she could not love her husband, she had made no comment, given no hint, that she was thinking of leaving him.
And even if she did…
Yvonne came in, smiling a happy but nervous grin as she saw Chrissy awake. It faltered when she saw her lover's expression, however.
'I'm not just using you! Chrissy!'
'Bullshit,' Christine snapped, pulling away from Yvonne's questing hand. 'You're going back to your fucking husband and pretending none of this happened. You've split on me once, I know you'll do it again.'
Chrissy was pulling on her boots. The argument had started barely seconds after Yvonne had emerged from her shower and she still had her towel wrapped around her waist.
'No, I wouldn't! I told you, I was an idiot!' Von's hand drew back, not wanting to chase Chrissy off, but she shook her head emphatically. 'I don't love him, I never have.'
'You love his cock, though.'
Yvonne said nothing, not knowing quite what to say.
Christine made a disgusted noise.
Yvonne narrowed her eyes. 'Oh my God, you think I'm contaminated, don't you? You think I've got fucking boy germs, and now you can hardly look at me!'
The accusation stung all the more for being true, even if Christine had not realised it before. She sneered, covering her confusion and hurt with attitude as she had countless times before.
'That's fucking stupid. What d'you think I am, five years old?'
'You tell me.'
'Of course I'm not!'
'Well you're sure acting like it.'
Christine shook her head, pulled her laces into position and went straight out the door.
'No, Chrissy, wait -'
Christine held in the tears until she reached her own little apartment. She made it that far. That, she assured herself, was something.
So why was something telling her she'd made a horrible mistake?
South-and-East Regional Health was a surprisingly large clinic but, then, it had to be. It served as the main health centre for fifteen regional and rural towns, primarily helping pensioners, the disabled and the unemployed to get access to good-quality care.
Yvonne Walter was the head nutritionist at SER. She had earned that position. While she came to the position fairly late - in her mid- to late-40s, following an amicable divorce from her husband of twenty-years - she had worked hard and thrown herself body and soul into the practice. When she had arrived, the position of nutritionist was largely ornamental, a box to be ticked to gain more funding. By her fifth year there, the clinic was respected as one of the best nutrition and dietician services in the state, let alone the region.
She was tall, she was willowy, she was a week shy of sixty years old and showed no signs of slowing down. Even a torn ligament in her knee, not something one recovered from easily in one's later years, barely made her pause.
Yvonne's hair had been clipped into a pixie cut for the last decade and now showed streaks of silver that she referred proudly to as her 'skunk stripes.' Two close-set rings piercing one nostril gave her a 'groovy granny' look, according to her daughter Emma, and she was rarely seen outside of comfortable gym clothes these days.
Retirement was looming but until forced out of the profession by her well-meaning kids and her ex-husband - with whom she was still close friends - she would be at that clinic office every day she could manage.
One day, while looking through the list of new clients her receptionist had assembled, she noticed a name that she recognised.
Christine Daley.
Yvonne sat quite still for some time behind her desk, looking at that name. She took her time, revelling in the letters, the syllables, feeling her face flush in both pleasure and gentle heartache. She had long ago put those events behind her but it never ceased to amaze her how the body remembers differently. Her heart pounded. Her head swam. Her fingers tingled with the memory of warm skin.
Abruptly she stood up, dropped the list on her desk and went out of her office, into the waiting room.
There were three people waiting.
One of them was…
One of them was a shortish lady, prominent around the backside and bust, someone who in her youth had curves you could happily kill yourself on. Her upper arms and the skin around her neck had a slightly slack look, the look of someone who had lost weight too quickly at some time in the past, and her hair was a mass of shock-white with one single, prominent purple streak dyed unapologetically through.
Dimples on her lip, her ears, her eyebrows were evidence of piercings that had been removed and mostly healed over. She wore a long skirt that reached her ankles, orthopaedic sandals that had never been in fashion (and would never be) and a long-sleeved blue blouse that matched her eyes, still bright, the colour of a clear sky.
Yvonne watched Chrissy for a while and then, when her old lover looked her way, crooked her finger wordlessly.
Follow me…
'You've moved to the area?'
'Yes, just last month. I-'
'Breathe in. Now out. Good. Sorry, go on.'
'I've been… getting my bearings.' Christine fidgeted as Yvonne moved about her, checking the motion of this joint or the action of that limb before taking her over to the scales and weighing her.
'Mmm-hmm. Do you like it here?' Yvonne's voice was crisp, professional.
'It's a nice town. Von, I…' Christine paused. She had expected Yvonne to cut her off but the nutritionist, having sat back down, merely stopped taking notes, put down her pen and waited.
The silence grew awkward. Christine half-wished the other woman would fill it. Yvonne, it seemed, was not going to budge.
'Von, I'm… About that time in Melbourne.'
'Fifteen years ago.' Yvonne shrugged gently. 'It was a teenager ago, Chrissy. It's in the past.'
'But still…'
Yvonne sighed and sat back in her chair. 'I'd guessed this wasn't a chance meeting. You saw my name somewhere, thought you'd come along and talk? Get everything out in the open?'
'Um… Something like that.' Chrissy cursed her nerves. Yvonne, clearly had grown a backbone while she had lost hers somewhere along the line.
'Well?' Yvonne spread her hands, palms up. 'We were little kids. We met. We were teens. We kissed. We were in our twenties, we had a fantastic relationship that I screwed up. We were in our forties, we had sex once, you left.' Von tilted her head. 'That about cover it?'
'I was stupid,' Chrissy said quietly. 'You forgot that bit.'
'No, I just didn't mention it. And I was stupid too. Now we're two stupid old ladies and you,' she added, turning to her computer and tapping some keys, 'have been recovering well from your cancer treatments, according to your medical history. Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.' She glanced back at Christine, concern written across her face.
'In remission, or gone, whichever.' Chrissy shook her head. 'It almost killed me twice, though.'
'"Almost" means "not dead",' Yvonne reminded her, pulled open a letter template in her word processor and began typing.
'What's that for?'
'I'm writing you a referral to another nutritionist. One of the best in the area, mind you, and before you get all misty-eyed and claim it's because I hate you, Christine Daley, that isn't it.' Yvonne took a deep breath and let it out, not looking at the other woman, aware Christine's eyes were locked to her.
'Then..?'
'It's because I'm going to be retiring within a few years, and because I still love you.'
Silence hit the office. After a few seconds it was broken by a sob.
'I-I thought…'
'I know what you thought, Chrissy.' Yvonne sighed, stopped typing and handed the tear-struck woman a box of tissues. 'It was written across your face.'
'Th-then…'
Yvonne shook her head, leaned forward and shut Christine Daley up with a kiss.
Dates always made Yvonne nervous but, for a change, she was feeling pretty good.
Part of that was that she knew Chrissy would be as nervous as she was. Part of it was the gleeful chatter of her daughter, Emma, who was helping her get ready. Part of it was the glass of white wine she'd already drunk.
But most of it was because it was her sixtieth birthday and she finally - finally - simply didn't care what anyone thought any more.
'I have - how do they say it nowadays? - I have no more fucks left to give,' she told her daughter earlier that evening.
'That's the way, Mum,' Emma had grinned, putting the bottle of wine meaningfully out of her mother's reach. 'Though you might be getting one later tonight if that dress is anything to be going by.'
'Emma! Of all the things to say to your dear old mother.'
Emma simply shrugged. Her mother had told her the truth about her sexuality following an awkward encounter when she was sixteen, when Yvonne had walked in on Emma and her then-secret girlfriend having sex in Emma's room. Since then the two had been open about their love lives; Emma was the only one who knew, for example, that Yvonne had cheated on her husband shortly before divorcing him. Even Donovan was in the dark about that, though Yvonne didn't lie about why she was divorcing him.
'We can't help how we're born,' he had said with a sad smile, and not for the first time Yvonne wished she could love him as more than a friend.
Yvonne had chosen to get ready for the date at Emma's both because it was easier to get her daughter to zip her into the body-hugging silver dress she had bought and because she was eager to see how Emma and Chrissy got along.
In truth she was a lot more nervous about that meeting than the date itself.
They were putting the final touches on Yvonne's makeup - not too audacious, just simple and flattering - when the doorbell rang.
'I'll get it!' Emma sang, even though only Yvonne, and perhaps their visitor, could hear. Emma had no partner or children of her own and the two were alone in the house.
Yvonne sat where she was, touching up her lipstick, suddenly aware that she was a lot more nervous than she expected to be. When Emma came back in she fidgeted, studying her daughter's carefully neutral expression.
She hates Chrissy, Yvonne guessed, or she's messing with me. Fifty-fifty odds on either.
The three of them tried a little small talk in the lounge room. Chrissy had chosen a purple velvet dress that Yvonne longed to run her hands over. Slowly the tension eased and even though Emma's expression remained polite and neutral throughout, she threw her mother a wink as the two were preparing to go. Behind the cover of the lounge room couch she curled the forefinger and thumb of her left hand into an 'O' shape and poked through it with her other finger.
Yvonne rolled her eyes.
'I think she hates me,' Chrissy said sadly as they rode in a cab through the town.
'Who?'
'Emma.'
Yvonne laughed. 'Uh, no. No, that she didn't. She just likes keeping people on edge.' Chrissy's surprised look made her grin. 'Want to know a secret?'
'I guess so?' Chrissy said, uncertain she actually did want to know.
'Emma knows me. She knows about us - all about us. We've talked a lot over the years.'
'Uh oh.'
'No, it's good. She's seen me a lot more than you have over the years and she knows what it looks like when I'm happy.' Yvonne shrugged and leaned over to kiss Chrissy on the cheek. 'You make me happy. That's enough for her.'
There was a long pause.
'It was never enough for Dad,' Christine mused sadly. 'He stopped talking to me completely. When you left… I guess he thought he'd get his little girl back.'
'But his little girl was never who he wanted her to be,' Yvonne sighed. 'My Dad was relieved when I got engaged, ecstatic when I had kids, but he could see I wasn't happy. He bought me a cupcake with a candle in it when I got divorced.'
Christine giggled at the thought and then took Yvonne's hand in both of her own. 'I wish I'd known him.'
'Me too.'
The date was a roaring success.
The destination was a restaurant, fairly upmarket without requiring a reference to get in. It took a while but by the time appetisers were finished, the two women were talking like old times. They talked about their childhoods, about the time they spent together in their twenties, about politics and the world and everything in between.
By the time dessert arrived, the two were tipsy on white wine and their feet, shed of shoes, were toying with one another under the table. Chrissy was mindful, at first, of other diners looking over curiously at them but Yvonne ignored it all. If others wanted to waste their lives judging people then she certainly failed to care. She had too few years left and had no intention of filling them with spite.
When they left the restaurant they were giggling like teenagers, light-headed from wine and leaning on one another for support. The taxi ride home was spent mostly silent, the driver glancing into his rear-view mirror now and then to see the two ladies kissing one another slowly.
Chrissy's house was quiet and cold when they got in the door. Hands roamed across clothing - the velvet dress and the body it covered felt as good under Yvonne's hands as she had expected it would - but the two lovers ended up falling asleep in bed, still clothed, holding one another and simply enjoying the sensation of no longer being alone.
They were still together when they awoke the next day.
Chrissy, one leg pinned by Yvonne's, gently tried to work herself free. The act awoke the taller woman, however, and the two shared a kiss that distracted Chrissy from her original intent. A kiss turned into a touch, a hand ran down and under the skirt of a dress, fabric was tweaked aside and warm, soft flesh yielded to gentle but insistent probing.
Heartbeats sped. Kisses contained gentle bites. Toying and playing became slow, gentle lovemaking that filled the morning with bliss.
Neither spoke a word more involved than yes or there until the sun hung well overhead. It was hunger - and other biological needs - that drove them from their sweet refuge, just as it had been so many years ago.
They lay back down after lunch and held one another. Soon they were kissing and, again, making love. In the afterglow they talked quietly, though neither could later remember what about. Pillow-talk.
Yvonne remembered when Chrissy turned away, though, self-conscious of her sagging breasts and slack skin. Chrissy remembered when Yvonne turned her back, kissing her neck and telling her that she was more beautiful than Von had dared dream.
'Will you hold me?' Chrissy whispered.
'Of course I will,' Yvonne told her.
'For how long?'
'For as long as we both shall live.'