Avoiding Mr Right (4 page)

The boarding call announcements distracted me as James
was trying to say goodbye.

He held me tight. 'I love you so much.' He leaned into
my neck and sobbed quietly.

I wiped a solo tear from the corner of my eye and grabbed
my cabin bag. 'I should go through security now. No use you
coming in, I'm going to the QANTAS Club.' I sounded
cool, almost flippant, though I didn't mean to. I just didn't
want to talk about it any more, or cry for that matter. We'd
both done enough of that the past two weeks.

I walked off and left him standing there, shoulders
sagging. I felt exhausted as I put my bag on the X-ray
conveyor belt and walked through the barrier. It sounded
off, and I had to take off the chunky choker James had given
me as a farewell gift.

Once through security, I turned to see him still standing
there, red-eyed but smiling bravely. He gave a weak wave.
I blew him a kiss and he pretended to catch it, then I
walked away.

I made my way down the concourse and up the
escalators to the QANTAS Club, and suddenly I felt
excited again. Going to the QANTAS Club was what all
the bourgeois Blacks were doing these days. I'd even heard
that a handful belonged to the so-called secret 'Chairman's
Club' as well. I didn't expect I'd ever be part of that, but
I was certainly looking forward to the bar and to chilling
out in peace before future flights. Work had made me a
corporate member because of the travel I'd be doing. I
showed my card and boarding pass and sauntered in like it
was somewhere I was meant to be.

I looked at my watch: it was one pm. Somewhere in the
world it was the right time to have a drink and that was
good enough for me. I didn't want to look like a cheap lush,
so didn't just go to the self-serve wine bar, but took a leaf
out of Alice's old book – before she met Gary and could
booze on – and ordered a gin'n'tonic from the nicely
uniformed young man behind the bar.

Then I slowly passed by the food counter. Cold meats,
cheeses, salads, rice crackers, nuts, corn chips, and an
espresso machine. I was so confused and oddly anxious,
I thought I'd grab a coffee as well, even though I hadn't
found a table or had a sip of my gin yet. I stood perplexed
for a moment, not knowing where to stick the cup, and a
middle-aged man in a navy pinstripe suit gently moved my
hand and cup under the spout for the burst of hot water and
steam. I liked the QANTAS Club already.

Next I grabbed a magazine and newspaper. Anyone
would've thought I'd never even flown before. I was like
a child at a carnival who had to do everything at once,
immediately. I found a table with four lounge chairs and
only one taken.

'Do you mind if I share?' I asked a casual-looking guy
reading the entertainment pages of the day's broadsheet.

I sipped my coffee and my gin'n'tonic – which didn't turn
out to be as pleasant as having just one or the other – and
pretended to read as I scanned the spacious lounge. Plasma
screens with sports and the news and TV screens with flights
departing, delayed, boarding and arriving. Businesspeople
in suits with laptops and BlackBerries, couples going on
holidays, a sports group of some description all wearing
the same tracksuit, and families. Too many families. It
wasn't as peaceful as I thought it would be, but I wasn't
complaining. I was on my way to my new life in my new
city and my new job.

I got up and roamed the NewsLink bookstore, thinking
I should read more and get my finger on the pulse. With
my background in the education sector I had some idea
about specific books used in the classroom, and I was
aware that more and more storytellers and artists were
going into schools and doing workshops these days, but
I really needed a better grounding in everything from
the history of the Indigenous visual arts movement to
the latest books released. I'd heard of the Miles Franklin
Award winner Alexis Wright, but when I found her epic
novel
Carpentaria
I was daunted by its size. With all the
policy papers I'd read of a night in my old job, I hardly
ever had time to read novels, and never read anything the
size of this one. As I continued to scan the shelves with
Carpentaria
under my arm, I wondered to myself whether
Wright's book would've been on the shelf of a mainstream
shop if it hadn't won the award. Or would it have been
relegated to the 'Australiana' section like other books by
and about Blackfellas? I made some notes to myself in my
diary to be followed up when I started work.

I went back to my table with another drink, my book,
and some food, certain I was about to drop something. The
same guy was still there and looked at me with sympathy
as I tried to crouch and set everything down at the same
time.

'Let me help you,' he offered, taking the mags and
paper from under my arm and placing them on the small,
heavy table.

'Thank you. Looks a little greedy, doesn't it?'

'Not at all, I always have a little party for myself when
I come here. This is the only place I get to read and have a
quiet drink anyway, so I completely understand. My name's
Mark.' He shook my hand and held it a few seconds too
long to be just friendly.

'I'm Peta,' I said quickly, and withdrew my hand. James's
tears were still drying on my collar. I pushed my sunnies
down and opened my magazine, trying not to notice that
Mark was still staring at me.

My flight was delayed as the weather was poor in
Melbourne. I laughed to myself, knowing the girls would
have gone to town with that information. I didn't care about
the delay – I just had a few more drinks. The more I drank,
though, the more I wanted to shove my entire fist into the
lidded jar full of corn chips. And the plates were just too
small to put anything of any substance onto them. They
were smaller than a saucer. That would be my constructive
feedback to QANTAS as a first-time visitor. Bigger jars
and bigger plates for the nibblies.

I could probably have spent the entire day in the QC –
which I decided was a groovier name for the place – and
just hang out and chill. I could probably meet men as well,
if that were my intention. I'd already met two in the course
of thirty minutes. But my thoughts were disturbed by a
noise, an annoying noise – a kid, no, two kids, whining,
whining, moaning, and crying. I looked around to see if
it was bothering anyone else, but it didn't seem to be. I
thought the QC was a place for peace, for grown-ups, for
businesspeople, and policy-making departmental types like
me. Not kids and certainly not spoilt kids at that. Noisy,
naughty, annoying brats who whine and moan even when
they are in the QC and can have all the cold meat and soft
cheese they want and an endless supply of gin'n'tonic, or
Australian wine, or beer. Kids are so ungrateful. Then my
mobile rang. It was James.

'It's me.' He sounded tired.

'Hi. Where are you?'

'In the car park.'

'What? Why? Flat battery?'

'Flat heart.'

My heart sank. While I felt sorry for James and his flat
heart weeping in the car park, I didn't feel at all compelled
to put down my very tasty gin'n'tonic or my soft cheese and
go find him.

'Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first and final boarding
call for QANTAS flight 433 to Melbourne. Your flight is
now boarding through Gate 6.'

'They're calling my flight, baby, I have to go. I'll call you
tonight.'

'I love you.' He said it with pain.

'You too.' And I turned my phone off.

Reality kicked in. I was on my way to Melbourne for
twelve months, but I felt like a kid going on a school
excursion to the zoo. I picked up my bag and book, sipped
the last of my drink and made my way out of the lounge.

♥

I went to grab the first of my cases off the carousel and
a young guy in black jeans and jumper grabbed it for me.
He then leaned over and grabbed his guitar case as well.
Chivalry was alive and well in Victoria. Musos too it
seemed. I'd heard there was a healthy live music scene in
Melbourne and I was looking forward to checking it out
as part of the new job. I was impressed with my first few
minutes in my new home.

At the taxi rank I turned on my phone. There were two
messages from Alice, one from Dannie and one from Liza.

Miss u already, how's the weather? X A

P.S. It's gorgeous day @ Coogee, bout 2 go 4 swim. X A

Skype me as soon as you're set up. Miss u, LIZA

Don't light up cos ur homesick, Dannie

It was muggy and overcast, but at least the rain had stopped.
This was Melbourne summer and I was just glad that the
girls weren't there to see it. I would never live it down. I
sent them a text:

Just landed, weather STUNNING, no ciggies, in touch afta shoppin,
Luv ya, Px

The Rialto building was the flashest office tower I'd ever
seen. We didn't have the penthouse suite, but we weren't
doing too badly for Blackfellas either. My view went right
along Collins Street into the city proper and I finally felt
like I was making it up the ladder – only a few rungs to go.

My first day in the office was spent meeting the other
members of my team. My deputy was Sylvia, a policy
development researcher who was also responsible for
advising me on the Indigenous arts scene. Sylvia was about
my age, with dyed jet-black hair, smoky kohl-rimmed eyes,
big blood-red lips and olive skin. I wasn't sure if she was a
Blackfella or not when I saw her.

'Hi, you must be Peta, welcome.' She handed me her
business card and I read it immediately.

'Oh, Sylvia, thanks – great to meet you.'

'Actually, it's spelt Sylvia, but it's pronounced Sylv-eye-a.'

'Right, sorry.'

'No dramas, everyone gets it wrong first time. It's just
that the pronunciation works better in the arts world.'

'So you're an artist, then?'

'Yes, I'm an eco-poet!' she declared proudly. 'I'm just
working here until my first book hits the bestseller list.'

Although I was concerned to hear she was only working
in the department to pass time, I was interested in knowing
more. 'Excuse my ignorance, Sylvia, I mean Sylv-eye-a, but
what's eco-poetry?'

'Eco-poets write about the natural order, or disorder, of
the world. Our poetry is born out of a sense of impending
disaster. It's about ecology, biology, conservation, philosophy.
It's about the planet, the earth, the need for rebirth.
Landfills, pulp mills, don't take pills.' She projected her
voice like she was performing on stage.

'Of course, the name's fairly self-explanatory, isn't it?
Thanks. And who's your publisher?'

'Well, my first book hasn't been published yet,' she said.
'But when it
is
published, I know it will sell big, and I'll
be on my way to being part of the literati. No longer will
Banjo Paterson and Les Murray be the only Australian
poets taught in schools. It'll be Sylvia the Greek-Australian
poet whose name will be on everyone's lips.'

'Is there a big market for poetry in Australia?' I asked.
I hadn't read much poetry beyond Oodgeroo Noonuccal.
Alice had given me a first edition of
We Are Going
in
hardcover. The only other hardcover books on my shelves
were textbooks from university, not nearly as enjoyable
to read.

'I'm going to make it my personal mission to open your
eyes and ears to the wonders of eco-poetry and the spoken
word community in Melbourne, Peta.'

'Okay, but can you refrain from using the word
mission
,
please Sylvia? Hasn't anyone around here told you that it
brings back terrible memories of mission managers and
mission life for a lot of Aboriginal Australians?'

'I'm just trying to reclaim the word is all. Like
Black
is
a positive now and was a negative in the past.' Sylvia was
confident in explaining herself.

'Yes, I understand, but to reclaim it, wouldn't
we
have to
use it ourselves?'

'I guess so, good point.' She walked off, but I didn't
think I'd offended her. She didn't seem the type to be overly
sensitive.

I liked Sylvia immediately; she was passionate, original,
eccentric and cheeky. And so different to Alice, Liza and
Dannie, who in contrast I realised were a bit conservative. I
was actually looking forward to the poetry readings she had
promised to take me to, and glad to know I was working
with someone who liked to 'manage upwards'.

I could handle an out-of-work eco-poet with a confused
name. At least her holy grail was publishing a bestseller and
not meeting men.

♥

I spent the first week sleeping at my Aunt Nell's place in
East Bentleigh. She had moved to Melbourne with her
husband back in the sixties. They weren't married any
more but unlike Mum, Aunt Nell didn't feel the need to try
again, and again, and again. She was content with the six
kids and the fifteen grandkids and another four on the way.
It was great to be around family again and to meet more
cousins. Aunt's house was always crowded, people coming
and going, endless cups of tea, kids running and screaming
and laughing, nonstop.

East Bentleigh was a long way from the city and the
north side, where other relations were, but Aunt said she
liked being the only Blackfellas in the street.

'I like being the only widow as well. I get a
lot
of attention
from the ageing men, married or not. They like Joe's cooking
too, especially his bush tucker biscuits.' Cousin Joe had just
set up his own catering business and it was really taking off.

'I didn't know Old Mack died and that's why you were
alone all these years.' It was the first I'd heard Aunt describe
herself as a widow.

'Oh, he didn't. I just told people he died. It's much easier
to be a widow than it is to try and explain to people that
your fella left you.' She was matter of fact, my aunt.

'The verbal murder. I love it. You wicked woman.' Next
time someone asked me about why I moved to Melbourne
and where James was, I could tell them, 'James is dead.' I
would never really do that, of course – James was too much
of a nice guy to verbally kill him. I would just save that line
for someone else in the future.

While it was great being around family and being loved
and pampered with homemade meals, I was soon craving
my own space and the coastline. With no ocean breeze or
even a view of the sea to sustain me, the February heat was
draining, and sharing a bathroom with my aunt, her teeth,
my cousin Joe, his woman Annie and their two kids Maya
and Will was just too much for me. I was used to a queen-size
bed all to myself and my own bathroom and waking up
naturally, not by having my eyelashes pulled at six in the
morning by a toddler laughing hysterically. The sofa bed,
the old crochet red, black and yellow rug thrown over me,
and Aunt's cat Lola soon became all too much.

Aunt had a computer set up in the lounge room so at
least I could send the girls and James emails after work. For
the first few nights it was a group message, which wasn't the
most personal thing, but I didn't have much time, as Annie
needed to do the admin work for Joe's business while he
bathed the kids and put them to bed. It wasn't till the end
of the week that I finally had the chance to write more than
a couple of quick lines:

Hello all my darling friends, I miss you guys, and life here with the
rels is soooo different to my little peaceful flat on the beach in
Coogee. God I miss it. Aunt's place in East Bentleigh is a long way
from the rest of the family, but hell, it doesn't stop people dropping
in like a trail of ants following a line of something sweet. The
attraction is always Joe's creations. Everyone raves about how he's
a chef on the cusp of great things with his new marketable bush
food. He doesn't just cater for local Koori events, but mainstream
parties and even weddings. So the house is always full of the
aromas of good, home-cooked, restaurant-quality food. Even the
ageing bananas in this really old bright blue fruit bowl Aunt has end
up as banana bread. And not just your basic banana bread – it's
always sprinkled with wattle seeds or some other bush delight. Oh,
by the way, I'm getting FAT! James, you won't want to look at me,
I'm telling you! I'm going to have to walk to the city every day to
shake off the weight if I don't move out soon. Even Lola, Aunt's
very spoiled cat, has fresh kangaroo meat every night for dinner.
I'm going to start looking at rental properties on Saturday and
the closest thing I'm going to get to Coogee is St Kilda, so that's
where I'm going to start. Luv ya, off to bed now, but email me back
soon . . . Px

James emailed me back immediately:

My precious babe, I miss you. I'm so glad you are safe there with
your family. Joe's business sounds great; he could do our wedding
one day, perhaps. I will ask around at the office tomorrow and
see who's got contacts in property management in St Kilda, might
help. Real estate agents can't always be trusted. Be careful. I know
you're in bed now, wish I was there with you. Will call you in the
morning. Love you.

Your James

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

PS Please don't send me group emails, I'm not one of your
girlfriends.

I thought about emailing him straight back, but that would
mean commenting on the 'our wedding one day' business,
and I didn't know how to approach it. Then Alice emailed
me back too:

Hey sistagirl, great to hear from you. We all miss you. I walked by
myself last weekend from Coogee to Bondi because Gary was away
with the boys. Liza's coming with me this weekend. It's not the
same though without you. God, I miss the laughs. Your aunt's place
sounds like a scream, can't wait to meet her when we visit. Look
out for Acland Street, the cake shops will be problematic if you get
homesick. Be strong. Love ya, x Missy

PS James rings me every other day in case I have any more news
about you than him. He is so missing you!

PPS Don't forget to call Josie, she knows you're there already. I
spoke to her yesterday.

I was a little jealous that Liza was doing the beach walk
with Alice on the weekend, and annoyed that James was
butting into my search for a flat, even though it would help
me. I just felt like it was his way of having some control
or hand in my life down here. I tried not to dwell on it as
I lay in bed thinking about the task at hand – finding a
flat. If I was going to enjoy my twelve-month holiday from
my normal life, from the Sydney office, from James, from
the pressures of commitment, I needed to set up a strong
foundation for my home life. Working life would take care
of itself – it always had.

♥

On Saturday morning I circled six or so units in
The Age
and headed out early, convinced I would have something
by lunchtime. I had to. It was simply too hot to be doing
anything other than sitting near the water. I was really
missing Coogee for the sea breeze and the coastal walk and
the Ladies Baths.

'Take my car, Peta – it's the quickest way to get to
St Kilda.' Aunt handed me the keys to her faded red
Cortina, a Blackfella's car if ever there was one. If the
crocheted blanket in the back window wasn't enough,
the stickers holding the back bumper bar together sure
as hell gave it away:
Koori Radio
,
Reconciliation Australia
,
Land Rights NOW!
,
Stop Black Deaths In Custody
,
Moving
Forward Looking Blak!
The slogans said it all. The tyres
were bald, the car was dusty, but old Gemma was Aunt
Nell's favourite family member. It was a tank of a car and I
had no idea how the old girl manoeuvred it. It didn't have
power steering and I was too scared to ask if it even took
unleaded petrol. I was sure the car was as environmentally
unfriendly as they came.

'Can I come with you?' Maya asked, looking gorgeous in
her favourite purple dress.

'Oh darling, I can't take you today, it's for grown-ups.
Maybe another day.' Maya was cute but I didn't have any
problem saying,
No, sorry, not today.

'Will you take me to Luna Park?' She was brazen at
times, but maybe that's what kids were like these days.

Joe and Annie motioned and mimed behind her back:
'No, say no!' I couldn't understand what the drama was. She
was a well-behaved little girl, and as I wasn't going to be
staying with them much longer, I thought the least I could
do was promise to take her to Luna Park one day.

'Of course, Maya, I'll take you and we'll have fun, won't
we?' Joe and Annie shook their heads, but Maya ran off
singing and clapping and I felt warm and fuzzy for doing
something nice. See, I didn't need to have kids. I could
just be nice to other people's kids, get lots of kid-cred,
appreciation from the parents and family – and then give
them back.

Not having a car of my own in Sydney, I wasn't confident
driving down Centre Road, turning onto the Nepean
Highway, then left onto North Road, but as soon as I saw
the ocean in the distance and Brighton up ahead my spirits
lifted, even if my forty-kilometre speed limit didn't. I was
driving like the old lady the car belonged to. Even though
other drivers were passing me and shaking their heads, I
knew that Aunt knew every scratch on Gemma and I didn't
plan on getting another one.

It was a steaming hot day and the area was crowded. I
drove along the Esplanade looking for a park, finding one
immediately outside the St Kilda Sea Baths, but there were
coin-only parking meters and I didn't have any change.
There was no change in the ashtray, just too many butts. I
was glad I was giving up smoking. It really was a disgusting
habit. Scratching around the car and the bottom of my
handbag looking for change, I was getting really frustrated,
just as I did back in Sydney, where parking meters at some
beaches only took credit cards. I recalled being outraged the
first time I had to use one at Bronte, and thought it was a
very strategic way of keeping Blackfellas off the beach, as
most didn't have credit cards. Now I had a wallet full of
cards, but no change. I didn't want to lose my spot, nor did
I want to get a ticket, so I looked pathetic and desperate as
I approached a man sitting in a white van nearby.

'Excuse me, you wouldn't have some change, would you?'

'Sure, what do you need, love?' he said in a friendly tone.

'I've got five in change, need another two – can you
change five dollars?' I held out the note.

'Can't break it, sorry, but here's the two dollars to make
up the difference.'

'Oh, really, thanks, that's very kind of you.'