My Last Balmain Poetry Reading -

Poetry in Australia has since recovered and is now the most vigorous and exciting and imaginative of the genres.

Kate Jennings' Trouble   Evolution of a Radical/Selected Writings 1970-2010 was published by Black Inc. Much could be said.

Frank Moorhouse is supposed to be bringing out Days of Wine and Rage again. I hope he keeps the original cover drawing by Neil Curtis - it says it all.

MY LAST BALMAIN POETRY READING

Took place in Paddington in the mid seventies. In the hall of a church which had surrendered to hippiedom – massage, iridology and various therapies (but not I suppose primal screaming – the neighbours, and the rector, tolerant as they were, would have had to draw the line at that).

The reading was to make up for that deficiency.

It may have been March, in any case it was very hot and all Sydney was sick of the heat.

Though it was the late afternoon and the sun was remorseless, the living embodiments of the Balmainia of that period (see Days of Wine and Rage Frank Moorhouse ed) had trekked across in their muddied utes and battered Kombis to show themselves off in the east.

It is hard to characterise them now – pre feral but heirs to all the vaunting rudeness of the Push (for which see Ann Coombs’ Sex and Anarchy). Their vocal style was braying confrontational. Their look was styled carelessness and butch highlighted with tortured silver. Many of the men could hardly be bothered to hide their utter male chauvinism; many of the women felt the same and down to the last straight woman who amused herself with the idea of lesbianism they were all homophobic. Kindness and generosity had no place in their ethos.

Despite the fact that silence could not be obtained, in desperation the Presenter declared the occasion begun. And the poets proceeded valiantly against the background natter.

It was a period when people demanded to be listened to, when the rules of committee and debate had become suspect as a patriarchal blind to ensure only male voices produced by thicker vocal chords and born on bigger lungs were listened to. People were used to interrupting and demanding their item be put on the agenda and dealt with now. Getting things on the agenda was much admired; hijacking the agenda was what others did. The patriarchs didn’t have to – they were always the agenda. In any case Balmainia was not about to shut up for a few poets. What were they on about anyhow?

The nattering was turning into the characteristic barnyard when Kate Jennings, tantalisingly late and chicly attired despite the heat in retro crushed velvet (black, of course), was announced. She was beautiful, slim and pale and heat or no heat, she was crushed velvet (silk).

Up until then Balmainia had not paused in its disputes and harangues but it did cast a sideways glance in order to dismiss each poet victim in turn. However Kate Jennings was a name – what was it she had done again?

And there she was, looking like she had her shit together, so they rotated a little towards her and took the opportunity to pour more flagon wine down their parched throats.

The Presenter explained that she had edited Mother I’m Rooted. Oh, that’s right, she’s that one. Right on.

I do not recall what poem(s) Ms Jennings read at this scarifying event but think she said something about being on Valium and leaving the country. And then she wept a little and sensibly walked out. As I recall.

She had written ‘Couples’ –

     ‘this is a poem for couples from which i cannot escape

                  this is a poem for people who are not couples but who

                  want to be couples from which i cannot escape a poem

                  …’

But did return to Australia later to show off the husband she found on Wall Street. Then she came back again to say he’d died but she was still on Wall Street. So good for her. I admired her most for taking the mike at an anti Vietnam War meeting to say the work of liberating women was more important than dealing with men’s messes like this. A comment which almost everyone there was too invested in the status quo to take seriously. Or so I recall.

Once she’d evaporated into the blinding heat there was no stopping them.

But someone tried. He announced to a particularly loud woman that this was a poetry reading; he could not hear the poet.  Though thus appealed to, she was not to be influenced. Louder than he, she announced back, ‘Get you! You’re so gross’ (a word much used at the time) and went back to her discussion and schooner of Riesling.

I knew it was time for me to go too.

I had to step over the legs of Michael Wilding slumped in despair (I took it) on the stone steps outside. We regarded one another (I took it) out of our mutual misery at the hopeless barbarity of the event and I was for a moment tempted to say, ‘Come and have a drink,’ but realised in time this would probably have been misinterpreted and greeted with contempt or worse still an indulgent polite rejection. Thank you God.

Something was over for me.

Perhaps Balmainia inadvertently had a point; much of the poetry of the time was so dreadful –

Sonnet 69

Sitting in front of the fire farting

  after my old lady’s bean stew,

recalling the good times

  we had up the commune

  like the tin of camembert

  she confiscated from David Jones

wouldgowith                                         the bottle of good red

we found                          – was it just luck? –

in the pub in good old Nambucca

  not to say Heads.

She was in the kitchen listing               the I Ching.

                      Was it luck?

Anyway the forces converged

                 she opened the tin while I popped the cork.

that people turned to A D Hope for relief.

I think the problem was, Balmainia didn’t take anything very seriously, except themselves. The residue is their vacuous wit and embarrassing pomposity.

More Religion - alfresco

The true Mary MacKillop - an Australian story

THE MARTYRDOM OF MARY MacKILLOP

The story of Saint Mary of the Cross MacKillop’s martyrdom has been suppressed, as have been so many – the hidden figure in Da Vinci’s ‘The Last Supper’, the true identity of the face imprinted on the Shroud of Turin, the true final resting place of St Francis Xavier’s remains … and who knows what else besides – by a certain ecclesiastical authority.

They do so for their own reasons and at their own risk for Judgement is not in their hands.

Mary MacKillop died stumbling across the forest floor near Trihi. She was on her way to Mount Gambier thence Port Macdonnell where she was to take a steamer to Melbourne to organise the publication of a collection of documents which had come into her possession over the years and which she had painstakingly kept hidden from various bishops who, acting on orders from afar, had demanded details of their existence, their matter and that she surrender them.

A certain Josephite Sister, long trusted by Saint Mary of the Cross MacKillop, accompanied her for the first part of the journey. This good Sister, Sister Dorothy, claimed in a letter to her aunt that as they approached Trihi Sister Mary MacKillop insisted she leave her as she was expecting to be met by a band of Aboriginal faithfuls who were going to guide her without trace to Mount Gambier where she would rest, then on to the port. The good Sister claimed that Sister Mary felt she was being pursued and her secret documents were at great risk, that all she could trust about her were the good Sister herself and the Aboriginal faithful whom Sister Mary had known for many years and to whom she was confidante and keeper of not only sacred lore but some objects of vertue of inestimable significance to the Aborigines. Sister Dorothy writes to her beloved aunt

My last glimpse of her was swaying along the dusty road, burdened by two great leather valises, one with the documents and a few necessities, the other with whatever the Aborigines had entrusted to her. I wondered at her strength and prayed she would not walk unaccompanied for long in that desolate and forbidding place. I weep now when I think how I abandoned her to whatever her fate was to be.

The Holy Mother has interceded for me and I have been given some understanding that my role was small in all this and none may alter His plans. I think …

I must not dwell any longer on this. Sister Mary of the Cross MacKillop was going to her martyrdom in which I had not been chosen to share in any way.

It is a sin but I am tormented by guilt that I might have been in some way of comfort to her in her extremis. I can share this burden with none but you my dear.

For the rest of the story we must turn to a woman, now no longer with us, who had it from her adored Uncle, her mother’s brother who as a child in Port Augusta had been taught by the true Saint Mary MacKillop.

This man had been initiated into manhood secretly and had been made a guardian of certain stories ‘owned’ by is tribe. According to him, his niece claimed, Sister Mary had been met on the track near Trihi and escorted towards Mount Gambier, then a small town.

The party made camp for the night. The area was thickly forested and remote. Even so, Saint Mary of the Cross MacKillop insisted on their making camp in a place hidden from the track. Though this was done she remained apprehensive about the light from fires and the smell of smoke. She beseeched the Aborigines constantly to quiet though they were always very quiet.

In their gracious way they smothered the fires and kept their soft voices extremely low. They became affected by Sister Mary’s nervousness and were very alert. An Elder said he would look around the area when a senior woman signalled silence for she had heard something.

All became as statues and the small clearing amongst the towering trees was more silent than a cemetery.

This woman tells us that her uncle informed her that Sister Mary clutched at her two valises on either side of her as she prayed.

The party became worried when the Elder did not soon return and another, alarmed, suggested they remove to the track as the place must be sacred to the people of that area, now long gone. The Aboriginal party agreed as they said they could sense ancestor spirits gathering who were not pleased to be disturbed and they knew no way to appease them.

The uncle said, ‘Sister Mary, she stand up, look here, look there, she listen then she say the track was not safe, horsemen could be coming from Warrnambool to steal her holy things – and ours.’

They did not know if a spirit was talking through Sister Mary or if she was sick or if the Holy Ghost was leading her. They were very frightened and did not know what to do.

Sister Mary saw this and spoke to them very gently. She told them she would find the Elder, that he must have fallen asleep nearby. She told them they must guard her valises and if any white men came they must hide them so they could not be found for the white men were very bad and would take the sacred objects and carry them long way so they would never see them again and the ancestors would be very angry with them for not taking proper care and the white men would use the sacred objects to talk to the ancestors and learn their secrets for they were very clever people.

This woman said her uncle was frightened telling this story even though it had happened so many years before and she herself became her young self and was as frightened as a girl.

Sister Mary slipped into the great darkness of the forest. She had lived with Aboriginal people so long she knew their ways and was silent and no-one, maybe not even the spirits of that place, could see her in her habit with her head held down.

After a while the Elder returned and said they must go back to the track immediately. They told him they must wait for Sister Mary who had gone in search of him. He insisted, saying the spirits of the place were very angry to be disturbed and great trouble would come if the did not leave at once. They would wait the rest of the night on the track and escort Sister Mary away from this place. She would go to the track when she returned and found them no longer in their hiding place.

Everyone argued, even the women and they had to do so very quietly lest the spirits come. Several women cried. They knew they could not stay there but Sister Mary did not return.

So they hid her valises very carefully and returned to the track where they did their best to settle for the night while watching for Sister Mary.

They heard horses coming from Mount Gambier and were very afraid but less afraid than they were of the spirits who they could feel watching them from the forest all around.

Two white men rode towards them and almost passed them but stopped. They asked them what they were doing. The Elder spoke up, he said they were being sent from the mission to Mount Gambier to bring some Aboriginals who has run away, home to Trihi and the station near there. One of the white men asked them if they knew Sister Mary and they said they did. The white men told the Aborigines that she was a bad woman who stole and drank and told lies and they were not to have anything to do with her anymore. They said they were going to take Sister Mary away because she was telling lies and the Pope was very angry with her. She also had some things belonging to the Pope, some papers, and she must give them back. They asked the Aborigines if they knew where Sister Mary kept her papers but the Aborigines said they did not know, maybe the office.

The men rode on but the Aborigines saw a fire later and they knew they had made camp on the track for the rest of the night.  Such was the terror of that place.

Sister Mary did not appear. The Elder suddenly said he would go back, past the camp of the two strangers, past Trihi to the mission and tell the other Sisters that the Pope had sent two men to capture Sister Mary and take her papers. They talked about this and agreed. Two women were to go back with this man to help him explain and to help the Sisters if they had to hide.

Once the warning party had set out those who remained felt very lonely. They huddled, now very cold, waiting for Sister Mary but still she did not come back. They were very afraid. They were too frightened to light a fire in case the two white men came back thinking it was Sister Mary, too frightened to call out for Sister Mary in case the spirits and the white men heard them … They wanted to leave but could not without Sister Mary and because the spirits especially did not like people wandering through their country at night for that was their time. They were too afraid to go amongst the great trees to search of the true Sister Mary MacKillop.

The uncle said it was the longest night of his life and he thought he might be in Purgatory.

At the first call of a bird several women shook him right awake and told him he was to come with them into the forest to search for the true Sister Mary for she must have made her own camp for the night.

The uncle told his niece that he could see that they thought Sister Mary had been taken by spirits but they knew they must look for her to tell the Sisters.

There were little mists around the ground, fallen clouds. They were careful to walk around them whenever they could and to apologise to them for they were the ancestors belonging to that place going to their caves to rest during the day. The uncle said the eyes of the women were like those of mopokes and they walked touching one another, looking around all the while. The sun was shining through the trees now and some of the leaves sparkled and they all knew these were the eyes of the spirits watching.

They came to the place where they had made camp with the true Sister Mary and followed her trail into the bush. They could see that at first she understood where the Elder had gone but soon her trail moved off from his. She was almost like an Aborigine they could see, so carefully had she made her way through the bush but here she had stumbled, there she had stopped and looked around and now did not know where to go. Then she had walked strongly away from their camp and further into the forest.

They followed her trail. Suddenly they stopped – the paws of three dingoes. They were following Sister Mary. The uncle heard the senior woman say a special word, so he knew these were sacred dingoes. He told the women he wanted to go back now. Two of the women turned but the old one hissed at them and went on so they followed.

They came to a glade. The ferns and small bushes were beaten and broken. And there was the horrible sight  - the true Sister Mary, across a rock. There was a spear in her side, between her ribs. Her blood had run and splashed in patterns on the rock, in one of her poor hands she clutched, as testimony to her agony, a dried gout of blood.

They ran, they ran, back to the others.

Everyone was very frightened and wanted to run away but they were frightened to go back to the mission while the strange white men were there and frightened to go on to Mount Gambier because they knew they would be accused of killing Sister Mary. The white men would not believe dingo spirits had done it.

The senior woman suddenly stood up and ordered them to come. She went back into the forest. Then she turned and told them to clear their camp so nobody would know they had been there.

After they had swept the ground and scattered the pebbles they all went back to the glade.

The sun was now shining on Sister Mary’s poor body. At first they were afraid to approach but then the senior woman said some secret words and went to Sister Mary and pulled her off the rock. She ordered some women to get Sister Mary’s valises. She ordered the others to dig.

It was then they discovered the miracle. Where Sister Mary’s blood had fallen on the ground, the earth had turned to ochre. The blood patterns on the rock were like white man’s writing – the true Sister Mary had written in her own blood for it was the miraculous blood ochre that she clutched in her terrible hand.

The senior woman demanded of the boy what the lettering meant but he could not read the words. He took the slate from his school satchel, his prized possession, given to him by Sister Mary and carefully copied the lettering. The senior woman was pleased at this.

They bound Sister Mary’s body and buried it and then hid the valises where only the cleverest Aborigine could find them. Then they broke the spear and hid the pieces amongst themselves.

Then they sat and very, very quietly mourned Sister Mary.

The senior woman said, ‘We go back to mission now, tell Sisters that Sister Mary tell us in Mount Gambier you go home now, she get ride to Port Macdonnell.’

The niece said that her uncle had set out with the others on their return to the mission. They were almost at Trihi when they saw a carriage coming towards them.

It was the mission carriage and the good Josephite Sister, the true Sister Mary’s friend, held the reins. One of the white men sat beside her, the other rode beside them.

They stopped when they got to the little band of Aborigines. Sister Dorothy greeted them and said to the senior woman, ‘Madeleine, I Sister Mary, want you to go straight to the kitchen when you get to the mission and help the other women bake the bread. By the good angels in heaven I tell you they cannot do it properly unless you are there to guide them. Tell them Sister Mary said so.’

She looked straight at the senior woman and the senior woman said, ‘Yes Sister Mary. Good-bye Sister Mary. When you come back to us?’

‘As soon as the Lord allows my dear,’ she said. ‘Good-bye my dears,’ she said to the others.

The uncle said he called out, ‘Good-bye Sister Mary!’ and so did the others as she clicked the horse on. He did not know what made him do this as he knew well that it was Sister Dorothy whom they all loved for she was very kind and gentle and understood their ways better than any.

When they got to the mission there was much occupation but little effect. The Sisters rushed to the small returning party and told them Sister Dorothy was now Sister Mary and they must not forget to call her that when … she returned. They took the senior woman Madeleine aside and she told them her lies about the true Sister Mary getting a lift to Port Macdonnell.

‘Who them white men on the road?’ she demanded.

‘Oh just friends of Bishop. They called in, made us a small visit to see how … what we needed. Listen Madeleine, Sister Dorothy now boss, so we call her Sister Mary till Sister Mary comes back. Tell the others, call Sister Dorothy, Sister Mary. Don’t forget. Make sure the others understand – Sister Dorothy new name Sister Mary.’

The Aborigines who had been on the journey towards Mount Gambier told the others that the true Sister Mary had left them at Mount Gambier to go on to Port Macdonnell.

But everyone knew something was wrong. The Sisters thought it was because Sister Dorothy had been taken away and had become ‘Sister Mary’.

Some Aborigines vanished one night.

The Elder left when Madeleine pointed her part of the broken spear at him.

None of them ever saw him again.

Sister Dorothy, now Sister Mary returned and organised the removal of the mission to Yankalilla. The Josephites concentrated now on teaching poor white children.

The Aborigines at the mission felt a curse had fallen on the place and dispersed. Those with their sections of the fatal spear took them with them as sacred possessions to be hidden from uninitiated eyes.

Those of the party who had accompanied the true Sister Mary were too frightened to return to the site of her martyrdom. Gradually the valises became forgotten.

The young boy carefully transcribed the words he had written on his slate to a school exercise book given him by the nuns as a parting gift.

As an old man he had told his niece he still remembered them exactly though the exercise book had long since vanished. He said he would write them out for her. There were three phrases of few words.  He said he would return for the valises and return the sacred objects to some of his people whom he could trust to guard them and he would collect the true Sister Mary’s papers.

        

© Ian MacNeill

The dismissive, not very smart, title of the review gives you a lead ...

 This was in response to Daniel Mendelsohn's review ‘Boys Will Be Boys’ of Edmund White’s City Boy in the New York Review of Books September 30 – October 13, 2010 Volume LVII, Number 14. Journals rarely publish criticism of their editorial (tacit or not) policy  and practices.

The NYRB continues to publish articles which talk for example about ‘his homosexuality’; ‘his heterosexuality’ is a phrase never encountered.

Dear Editor

I read Daniel Mendelsohn's review of Edmund White's  City Boy (NYRB Sept 30 - Oct 13) with little advantage of enlightenment.

It's not just that it stumbled around somewhat and was repetitive, it seemed oddly uninformed and glibly so where it was.

I gather Mendelsohn was around at the time, so what excuse can he have for not knowing The New York Time's scandalous history of homophobia? 

Why wouldn't White have 'a particular animus against it'?

This journal too has such a shadow across its history. Up until the death of its founding editors its pages rang with silence or antipathy towards gay concerns (sure it published Gore Vidal - on history and politics - and he had contributed to its founding).

The thing wrong with the Mendelsohn review is that it is oddly ungenerous and misleading.

Edmund White made huge advances in writing about human sexuality. Who amongst his contemporaries, gay or straight, explored the erotic as he has - Charles Bukowski?

Mendelsohn's admiration  turns instead to wondering where the early  'formalism' of the more or less unreadable Forgetting Elena and Nocturnes for the King of Naples might have taken White. 

Talking of culs de sac, why is there no questioning of the role of homophobia in consigning 'gay writing' to the 'niche'? 

White defied that.

Mendelsohn writes as if it were never an issue.

He thus invokes what we were hoping was the buried tradition of this journal.

Ian MacNeill

Sydney

Another book launch, this one in Sydney, also with a post launch dinner

NONE MAY HEED

The cold wind blasted grit against her legs as she stood in Glebe Point Road, stunned by the tedium of the launch she had just fled. She prayed for a taxi before they all came clamouring out, denying her the graceful exit which was now all she wanted from this evening.

No taxi appeared on the stretch of road; she was beginning to loath it.

She knew she did not have long if she was to avoid being caught up in the post event indecision and desperation Tina was prone to. She set off for Parramatta Road and whatever obscurity buses could offer.

Tina caught up with her. ‘What are you doing? We’re here. Gus is giving us a lift. We’ve been invited back for the dinner. Come on!’

‘Oh no, thanks Tina, it was great – very interesting. I’ve got a bit of a headache – why do they always serve such lousy wine?’

‘You can drink orange juice, or mineral water - come on. It’s in his warehouse. Gus is giving us a lift. I think he likes me.’ Tina grabbed her arm.

She allowed herself to be dragged back down that unpromising road.

The crowd milling outside the launch had the abstracted gaze of predation she had so wanted not to be part of. Restaurant? Does it have vegan? Fabulous Thai place. I’m so over Thai. Why can’t we go somewhere like that new Italian near St Johns Road? Does it have BYO? There’s this great pub in King Street, it sells fabulous steaks and grilled fish and things like fresh salads, you feel so clean. Let’s go to Oxford Street, you and Tim and Harry can go in one cab and Lottie, Missie and I can go in another with Tranh. We’ll meet in Lansake for a martini.

What taxi?

Tina interrupted her own strained encomium of the author to demand, ‘Couldn’t you get a closer park?’

‘No,’ Gus said.

‘Isn’t he … Wasn’t that thing he said about East Timor and the oil deal with Australia amazing? Did you know that? I didn’t. Isn’t he so like … right?’ Tina leant over and lowered her voice, ‘Didn’t he look cute in that jacket? It was so cool.’

‘They’re everywhere in New York,’ Gus said.

Tina whispered in her ear, ’Isn’t he a hunk? I think he likes me.’

‘He’s with Gabriella,’ Gus said.

‘Do you mind if I smoke in the car?’ Tina said after she had lit the cigarette.

‘Yes,’ Gus said.

‘I’ll blow the smoke out the window.’

She decided she would ask Gus to let her off where she could get a taxi – maybe he could let her off at a station, she could at least salvage some of the expense of the night. She must not go out with Tina when she was wearing the boots. As soon as she saw them she should flee. Anyhow. No excuses, out of there.

Tina was fishing in her bag, brought out a little tube and sprayed her mouth.

‘Where is it again?’ Gus demanded.

‘Gus – ’

‘It’s around here somewhere. I thought you knew.’

‘You’re the one going Tina, all I do is drop you off.’

‘Aren’t you going?’

‘He wasn’t invited,’ Tina said, ‘he’s just giving us a lift.’

‘Gus, would you mind dropping me off somewhere?’

‘You’ve got to come! Don’t be silly. You can’t run away like that. All the time.’

‘Tina, I wasn’t invited.’

‘You were! His girlfriend said to bring you.’

‘Tina, I’ve got a headache. I’ve had a very stressful week. Thank you for inviting me to the book launch, it was great but I really must go home now. Gus, will you – ’

‘If you don’t go, I can’t. I won’t know anyone there. It’s my only chance to get to know him. I think Abbie Abramovic is going too. Did you see him at the launch? I thought you liked his stuff. You bought one of their C D’s. It’ll be so cool. This is a really big chance for me.’

‘Go for it,’ Gus said.

They drove up and down some deserted and ill-lit industrial cul de sacs.

‘There’s Abbie. With some chick. Stop.’

She turned to watch Gus’ tail lights diminish. Then turn into the night.

Tina was intent on watching Abbie and his friend. They were looking around uncertainly.

‘Hi!’ she called out, ‘we’re lost too.’

Tina clutched her arm, ‘Shut up! What are you doing?’

She shrugged Tina off and walked up to Abbie Abramovic and whoever.

‘Are you going to Mac Baker’s?’

‘I hope so,’ Abbie said. ‘Where is it?’

‘No idea,’ she said, ‘my girlfriend Tina … this is Tina, I’m Catherine, I know you’re Abbie Abramovic, I bought one of your C D’s … ‘

‘Fine,’ Abbie said. And looked away.

‘I’m Catherine,’ she said to Abbie’s companion.

‘My name’s Lorelei.’

Abbie returned his emptied gaze to their presence. ‘Lorelei’s a performance artist.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘what do you perform? Where?’

Just as Lorelei said, ‘I’ve almost got a major in dance from Western Sydney,’ another car rolled down the noir cul de sac.

She wouldn’t have been surprised if some bros had got out and pushed them up against a wall. She was ready for a fight.

A solid blond woman bustled out of the driver’s seat. A small bull of a man hauled himself out of the passenger door and a very thin woman got out of the back door. A man wearing an overcoat held it open for her.

Abbie started over to them.

They all followed.

‘She’s an agent,’ Lorelei whispered of the solid blond woman.

‘Oh, what will we do?’ After a few more clattered paces she added, ‘Like in The Matrix?’

Tina caught up.

The two parties stood off a little then Abbie said, ‘I heard it’s a fabulous loft.’

The agent turned and headed towards a building.

As they all started after her the bull said, ‘You’ll have to get a bigger car, Pinkie.’

‘How come?’ the agent turned around to say.

‘My publicist wouldn’t approve of me driving around in a car which drags its bum every time a few people get in the back.’

‘And we don’t even weigh that much, do we Cassie? Not that I’m not intensely grateful for the lift Pinkie … I hope. Where are we – if that isn’t too existential a question?’ The man in the coat addressed Tina.

Tina ignored him.

Delighted by a sally, Catherine said, ‘I think we must be careful, there are agents about.’

The fact that he smiled ameliorated the agent’s turning and glaring at her. Catherine smiled back at the man. He was quite old.

The agent pushed a buzzer and said, ‘It’s us and some other people, we’re all lost for Christ’s sake you’d better have some whicky whacky waiting. It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.’

‘Push the door.’ The voice was singularly flat.

It took three of them to get it wide enough for them to squeeze through one at a time.

She looked to Tina in appeal as they mounted the slippery steel stairs. Tina’s profile told her she no longer knew her.

The loft was a vast space, appallingly cold though a single bar radiator glowed in the distance. It illuminated some outlines of people. The effect was rather Munch.

Pinkie led them on, clattering over the polished concrete floor.

Their approach was regarded in silence by the four silhouettes. One of them was Mac Baker. She could tell by the coat.

A huge refectory table stretched near a wall; assorted chairs broke its interminable line. On the other side of the radiator was a screen but you could see a bed behind it and a crowded clothes rack under which assorted shoes had dropped dead. There was a glow in another further darkness. It was an oven. Thank god: food.

Three of the four turned out to be minor celebrities like Mac.

‘Where’s my whicky whacky?’

‘Didn’t you bring some?’ Mac made it a rebuke.

‘No-o. You know I only drink whisky.’

‘There’s wine,’ the statuesque woman who didn’t seem to be a celebrity said and moved towards the oven glow.

‘Jesus,’ Pinkie said, ‘I can’t stay.’

‘Tra-laaa!’ The man in the coat pulled a half bottle of whisky from one of its pockets.

‘Thank Christ,’ said Pinkie. ‘Bring glasses!’ She bellowed at the dim form near the glow of the oven, ‘And ice! I’d better go and see what she’s up to.’

In the silence – was it despondent, hostile, coolness? - they listened to Pinkie interrogating the statuesque woman about glasses and ice and the statuesque woman refusing to be organised.

‘Pinkie must have her whicky whacky,’ the man in the overcoat risked, ‘we all have our needs.’ Then, ‘How about some music? With all these musicians present.’

Mac moved off and bent down near a wall. Little red and green lights blinked and music leapt into the air. Techno jazz, she thought but hoped there wasn’t a quiz.

They all had a drink in their hands. Abbie was standing near the little steady red lights and the oscillating green ones but he seemed to be grooving to a different beat. She glanced at Tina. Tina was offering to help the statue who was Gabriella. Pinkie was kneeling at the radiator, her whisky glowed wonderfully when she raised it.

‘Give us your car keys Pink,’ the small bull said.

‘Get me some cigarettes, will you?’ Cassie said. Her face had been everywhere for years.

‘Oh have one of mine, they’re in my bag,’ Tina called from what had lighted up to reveal itself as a kitchen nook. Everything was stainless steel.

Cassie did so at once.

‘And what would you like – chewing gum? chips? I’d send out for a new life but the delivery people have obviously always stolen them by the time they arrive. Some things you’ve just got to get yourself.’

‘I’d kill for a vodka and tonic with a not too thin slice of lime,’ she replied. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Oh stay here, I know I’m senile – oh we don’t say that any more do we? – demented – it sounds wrong but it’s probably right, I’d be the last to know – I can remember that: vodka, tonic, lime and a Crunchie – how was that?’

‘Pretty good. Let me come with you!’ she whispered intensely and clasped his forearm. His sleeve felt like cashmere.

‘This is Mel,’ he said of the small bull who was swearing at the car as he drove, ‘and I’m forgotten – no, my name’s Sanders.’

‘But call him Chicken, everyone else does,’ the bull said.

‘And call him Meltdown, everyone else does.’

So the bull was who she thought he was. ‘Call me Catherine, everyone else does,’ she said but was interrupted by Mel.

‘Where the fuck are we? Why do they live in these industrial estates, there won’t even be a Twenty-four Seven or whatever they’re called …’

There was. And it even had a little basket of limes.

Chicken presented her with a Crunchie. The woman in the burkha smiled at her but did not know where a bottle shop was.

They found one. She bought the most expensive bottle of vodka they had and a bottle of lime water in case she really wanted that instead of a slice of lime.

‘Do you think we’d better buy takeway?’ Meltdown said back in the car.

‘Yes,’ Chicken said, ‘because we’ll never find our way back.’

She helped them to.

Tina hissed, ‘Where did you get to?’

‘Oh I don’t know, Tina,’ she proclaimed so that her voice echoed through the gelid air, ‘Chicken and Meltie and I were just cruising about, you know what I’m like.’

Tina had cut free of the group at the refectory table to come over and address her thus. The other party was still huddled about the reassuring useless glow of the radiator.

‘Not before dinner, honey,’ Gabriella said in her American accent, ‘please.’

Tina drifted back to the table.

She followed to see if they were grazing on food.

Mac was razoring some cocaine on a black glass tray. He neatly curtailed a line, rolled up a hundred dollar note and handed it to Abbie who snorted. Mac watched him for approval. After a minute or so Abbie nodded at Mac and went back to grooving at the light show. Mac handed the note to the other man and arranged the thin beautiful disintegrating line of white on the black glass. It disappeared. ‘Some people think it makes the food taste better,’ he turned to say to Gabriella before continuing with his hostly duties. The men were served first, Meltie and Chicken declined. Pinkie told him to go fuck himself. ‘I might do that later,’ Mac said and laughed. Tina did too before bending to snort up her assistance. Catherine waved her vodka at him when it was her turn. She had decided she wanted vodka and lime.

Now she decided she wanted a slice of lime as well.

Gabriella glared at her as she entered the kitchen. She was preparing a salad in a huge greasily transparent scratched plastic bowl. It looked as if it were all leaves and very, very wrong. Some of the limes lay around butchered.

‘May I use this?’ she picked up a knife.

‘Suit yourself,’ Gabriella said.

She sliced a lime and plopped the slice into her glass.

There was a terrible smell seeping through the kitchen.

Gabriella suddenly stopped, turned away and came back carrying a card. ‘Fill this in,’ she said, ‘for yourself.’

She looked at it. It was blank. ‘Fill it in with what?’ she asked.

‘Your name, what else? It’s a place card. Put it where you want to sit.’

That note of exasperation could not be all her fault.

She moved along the table. Every now and again there was a white card held up by a little wrought wire claw. She saw Chicken/Sanders’ name and suddenly realised she’d done him at uni. She wondered if she would get the chance to tell him. Meltie was who she had guessed. The other names were known except for Tina’s and Lorelei’s. Lorelie’s family name was Monroe – had her mother been inspired by Gentlemen Prefer Blonds? She decided not to ask.

Abbie looked as though he was now actually dancing. She recognised the music, it was his own. Lorelei slid up next to him and began to move to the music too. Abbie stopped and moved away from her, into the gloom. Catherine saw Lorelei slump from beauty. Mac was standing as if a lighthouse but it was Tina who was beaming, up at him. Every now and again he lowered his eye balls to make sure he was still being lapped up. Cassie was staring intensely at the man whose name was that of another writer, lesser known but of high repute. He appeared to be explaining something; she appeared grateful. The remaining woman was a painter. She was staring around as if for something. As far as you could see no art hung on the walls, nor stood.

‘This place is fabulous, who was the architect?’ Tina exclaimed to the beamless lighthouse.

Gabriella came into the room bearing another huge plastic bowl in which something strange sat. The putrid odour of the kitchen intensified about them.

‘It’s minimalist,’ Mac explained to the room, ‘Gabi did it.’

‘Yeah,’ Gabi said. ‘it’s an N Y style. Would you like to take your place now?’

Catherine was pleased to be at the distant end of the table because that indignity had also been accorded Chicken.

‘Take your coat off, Chicken,’ Mac ordered from the head of the table.

‘I have nothing on underneath,’ Chicken said.

‘This is durian, it’s a traditional Indonesian fruit, they call it the shit of the gods,’ Gabriella announced. ‘You pass them around,’ she ordered Tina who had managed to seat herself next to Pinkie who was on Mac’s right. Tina scowled, pushed some bowls on.

Pinkie rose. ‘I would like to propose a toast  - to Mac.

All upstanding!’ When they had, she said tenderly, ‘ I hope your book is a great success dear in a difficult market, of course there will be t v spots.’

‘T V spots,’ Chicken murmured.

They tried to eat.

‘Has everyone got wine?’ Gabriella waved a huge bottle.

She must be very strong, Catherine noted, Tina had better watch out.

‘What can she follow durian with?’ Chicken said to her. Everyone else was engaged in ignoring them.

‘Some sort of – Lomatil is the only possibility.’

Unfortunately at that moment the table had fallen silent to listen.

‘I guess you don’t use place names much in Australia,’ Gabriella said down the refectory runway.

‘Well dear,’ Pinkie said, ‘we don’t find them necessary. The theory down here at the arse end of the world is that the hostess considers who to sit next to whom – very carefully -and leads them to their place. Or indicates it. Personally.’

‘Yeah well we think that’s rather ordinary, you know?’

Catherine stopped feeling sorry for Gabriella.

‘I learnt to make this on an Aegean island one summer when I was on holiday from Vasser,’ Gabriella announced of a casserole dish which didn’t look nearly big enough. ‘It’s very rich so you only have a little bit.’

‘Moussaka,’ Meltie said. ‘It’s actually an Australian Aboriginal dish. The Greek immigrants took it back when they returned with the wealth they earned from bad backs. Traditionally it’s kangaroo?’ It was a question.

‘No-o,’ Gabriella said. It was almost a question.

Even the coked had cleaned their plates in an alarmingly brief time.

Gabriella returned with the salad.

‘It’s too cold for salad,’ Mac said, ‘haven’t you got any … potatoes, or something?’

‘There were potatoes in the moussaka, I couldn’t deal with the aubergine. They’re traditional.’

‘Did the Aborigines steal that from the Irish convicts?’ Cassie asked Meltie.

He shrugged.

Whatever celebratory soufflé had briefly bound the party – raised on coke, hostility, novelty, alcohol, the bizarre level of discomfort – piffed into resentment and ill temper.

‘God it’s cold in here,’ the painter said.

‘Why don’t you get one of those oil heaters? They don’t work but they’d be better than that,’ Cassie said.

‘They’re not environmentally friendly,’ Mac said.

‘Bullshit,’ Abbie said.

‘I’m not allowed to have a dishwasher either,’ Gabriella said. ‘I feel colder here than I ever did in Brook- New York.’

‘That’s because you never do any exercise,’ Mac said.

‘Exercise is very important,’ Tina announced.

‘Anyone want coffee?’ Gabriella asked after she had stood up.

‘Oh. I brought some chocolates,’ the painter said, ‘I’d love some.’

‘Have you got any tea?’ Catherine asked.

‘Of course. Lemon grass or mint?’

‘I’ll have coffee,’ Catherine said.

Everyone laughed.

Gabriella retreated.

Catherine went after her. ‘I’m sorry about that, I didn’t mean it that way.’

‘Forget it,’ Gabriella said.

Meltie came in. ‘Here are the chocolates. Will I put them on a plate?’

The coffee and the chocolates were very successful. Pinkie poured whicky into hers.

‘Let’s dance,’ the painter said. And did.

Lorelei joined her. She was pretty good.

Cassie dragged the reputable writer onto his feet and danced in front of him but soon gave up.

Tina loved dancing; it would be interesting to see what she did. She sat with Mac who was lecturing Meltie who wasn’t listening.

Gabriella retreated to a wall, on the way she flicked a switch and more light suffused the room.

Catherine looked at Chicken’s sleeve. Red glowed up through the blue. ‘Look at your coat,’ she said.

‘I know,’ he said, ‘it’s a revelation. Do you think I can go now?’

‘Can I go with you?’

Gabriella escorted them out to wait for the taxi.

Chicken kissed Gabriella and thanked her.

Catherine thanked her too and gave her her card. ‘Please ring me, we can go out to the pictures, or just talk.’

‘That was a stupid thing to do,’ she said in the cab. ‘Do you think she will? I really wanted to ring her and thank her – I wasn’t really invited and I don’t have her number and … well, she had gone to some trouble.’

‘You could say that. She’s got something, I’ll say that of her, the durian was a sensational touch. That alone made her too good for Mac, though god knows a tin of pâté would have done that. Doesn’t the book sound dreary?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I studied you at uni.’

‘I think you’re confusing me with Chaucer,’ Chicken said.

‘I remember a line –

the ash floats like gentlest snow

before the fiery blizzard

but none may heed the warning

…’

She was going to add, ‘It’s so true’ but got caught up in the thrill of having remembered the quote.

© Ian MacNeill