Writers Festivals

Is the tide ebbing on Writers' Festivals?

Aren't they too feel good for their own health?

One tires of the relentless self-promotion which is their raison d'être. This is the source of their increasing vapidity.

KILLING IT SOFTLY

Do most people go to writers' festivals to hear the presenters talk about their children and grandchildren?

Samuel Wagan Watson and Helen Garner treated those of us at 'Writers as Readers', a session of the 2008 Sydney Writers' Festival, to family reflections during their presentations on the theme of 'major influences on their literary education'.

Watson's eleven year old son seems to be one such, along with the song 'Big Things from Little Things Grow' about which Watson got almost tearful. Watson is a poet. 

He also happily endorsed his son's callow homophobia.

The session was prefaced by a speech from Imre Salusinszky Chair of the Literature Board of the Australian Council for the Arts who explained, at length, how the Australia Council was responding to the worries about declining numbers of Chairs of Australian Literature by contributing to one such Chair in Western Australia and by funding this session.

Somewhere amongst what was to follow Randolph Stowe was alluded to in the most general terms by Christos Tsiolkas and … as far as I can remember not one other Australian writer though Watson mentioned his Dad who was chucked out of the University of Queensland but is now important in that University's Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Unit. It was hard to know which Watson was prouder of.

Tsiolkas has been influenced by … oh, everyone – Nabokov, Ingmar Bergman, Beckett, Kazantzakis, Kafka, Stanley Kramer as well as Stowe.

Garner was clearer: Cheever, Carver and Janet Malcolm.

The other presenter, Luke Davies, had been saved from the coldness and hardness of heroin abuse by reading some … was it Alaskan novel? about caribou and snow and caribou and snow drifts. And the Steinbeck of Cannery Row from which he treated us to a particularly mawkish moment.

Mary Kostakidis, the host, rounded things off by confessing she loved poetry and imploring Watson to tell her how to get the time to read some.

It was a free session.

Ian MacNeill

Australian and New Zealand architecture -Douglas Lloyd Jenkins' At Home

HIS SHED; THEIR HOME

Douglas Lloyd-Jenkins' At Home  A Century of New Zealand Design (Random House  New Zealand  2004) offers an examination of a theme which remains contentious in the realm of architecture and design - sexism. Despite some notable female names (you can count them on the fingers of one foot), antipodean architecture has remained a male preserve.

There are far more female names associated with design than architecture per se but according to the prevailing ethos of architecture, the work of all domestic designers is secondary, subsidiary and irrelevant to the ARCHITECTURE. As an architect told Lloyd-Jenkins, 'I'm not interested in door handles and light fittings.'

Regardless of their gender, designers of domestic fittings are seen by many architects as feminine, whereas the work of an architect is for MEN. This goes some way to accounting for the large number of Australian and New Zealand structures which, possessing neither grace nor originality, impose themselves on our scapes by force of presence.

This may be what a corporate client requires of a city sky scraper emblazoned with logo and name - building as bill board - but what about our homes? Must they too dominate their location, impose on their site, mount their plot, thrust into their environment? And aren't too many of those skyscrapers generic? One of the advantages the makers of The Matrix films saw in Sydney was its anonymity - so much of its skyline could simply have been any where.

Go to any architecture conference and observe the male participants - dark suits, dark shirts against which lie the plain dark ties. Where lurks the joie de vivre, the originality - indeed the creative spirit in this gloomy display? What is evident is fearful and pretentious conformity. And listen to the papers. What must pass as thought tortures its responders with obscurantism delivered with overweening pomposity.

Doesn't the ethos call for an explosion of colour and light, laughter and irreverence? Doesn't the expression of that ethos too often reflect the self-important ponderousness of architects, their fear of falling out with the herd?

Of course you can name individual exceptions but we're talking about an ethos here.

In short, Australian architecture is bailed up in an outdated notion of masculinity.

Let's say the feminine does not need to take itself desperately seriously, is interested in colour and detail, human needs, can listen, is not afraid to feel the lightness of being, has the self-belief to be witty.

There seems to be no Australian architect with the freedom of spirit or responsiveness of an Utzon or a Piano.

It is probably less confronting to consider what Lloyd-Jenkins has to say about twentieth century New Zealand architecture in order to reflect on Australian achievements. So let's have a look at what his book tells us about the ethos in which New Zealand architects have been working.

Twentieth century New Zealand home design was given a good start under the influence of the Governor-General's wife, Lady Ranfurly. She invited the outside in with potted plants and swept the gloom of Victoriana away with light coloured floral fabrics which were, astonishingly for the day, co-ordinated with other pieces of furniture. After her tour of duty in the Empire, Lady Renfurly established a New Zealand room in her home in Ireland featuring Goldie portraits of Maori as well as Maori and other Pacific artefacts. This in itself suggests she had not been afraid to consider where she was whilst resident in that furthest flung outpost of Empire. The history of twentieth century New Zealand architecture could be characterised as a struggle to do the same.

Apart from a panic stricken and desperate regard at anything but local possibilities, twentieth century New Zealand architecture was beset by masculinism. Lloyd-Jenkins' epitomises this as 'the shed'. 'The shed' was a structure for 'man alone', in which HE could prove himself autonomous, dependent on nothing and no-one as he wrestled nature into submission with an axe, a hired bulldozer and a couple of experienced tradesmen. But HE needed no-one, the Man in his Shed. It was as if New Zealand architects were designing for the Phantom. The famous 'First House' designed and built in the late '40's by some Auckland Architecture students who called themselves 'The Architectural Group' had no laundry. Oh well, we never see the Phantom washing the purple underwear he flaunts in public either. The dining room chair designed by Group member Allan Wild, while an elegant use of plywood, looks better suited for a Baptist chapel than a domestic interior.

Soon after the First House was completed, Group member Bruce Rotherham designed and built a house for himself. It is much admired by Lloyd-Jenkins. I have my reservations. Note the cooking area (p 120) - would you want to prepare Christmas dinner for relatives and friends there? Note also the bearded man peering down from above. Is it just the knowledge that Mrs Rotherham's life ended tragically that makes this a disturbing image?

Up until post modernism, twentieth century New Zealand architecture was notably masculinist - serious, defensive, derivative, increasingly out of touch with the demands and requirements of domestic life and wantonly severe in its decorative effects (creosoted timber, varnished timber, more creosoted timber, in straight lines thank you). The exception to this essentially inept and gloomy rule were the two Art Deco moments, with their curvy lines, shiny or coloured surfaces, their embrace of the new technologies. It is worth noting that these exceptions were more a matter of design than architecture. Lloyd-Jenkins offers an account of the early 70's revival of Art Deco in New Zealand as having 'its roots in international decadence ... flamboyant and attention getting ... chic, urban and cosmopolitan ... somewhat camp and a little effeminate'. He contrasts this with the New Colonial style of the same period with 'its roots in the worthiness of the pioneer and the dullness of an omnipresent nationalism ... rustic ... emphasising the vernacular ... low key and comfortable'. Perhaps he felt it was so implicit in his characterisation of the New Colonial that it he did not need to state that it was also 'overwhelmingly masculinist' (though you’d have to delete that ‘comfortable’ – masculinist architecture is neither comfortable nor really utilitarian though it affects to be so).

New Zealand's Art Deco revival saw a synthesis of design and architecture which led to the triumph of the New Zealand pavilion at Expo '70 in Osaka. The architect Michael Payne not only designed the chair which was to become a classic in New Zealand but co-operated with other designers on the project. Lloyd-Jenkins claims that the table settings for the pavilion's Geyser Room Restaurant 'represent a high point in New Zealand design'.

Lloyd-Jenkins' book is the first history of New Zealand architecture to relate architectural developments with the accompanying ones in domestic design. This in itself says much.

Lloyd-Jenkins' message in At Home ought to be heeded by all architects if they are to be taken, as they  so desperately want to be taken - seriously. 'Sheds', no matter how elegant, must contain objects, decorative and functional, if they are to be homes. This challenge will require architects to stop acting as if their balls had just been grabbed when they're asked to give an opinion of an upholstery fabric or what kind of vase might go well on the sideboard.

Ian MacNeill

That Would Be Me - serialisation of a chick lit (if you must) novel of neo colonialism and identity

That Would Be Me
Chapter Six


in which our heroine continues to make important allies, tries on another version of herself and is sprung in the execution of her compulsive ritual 

The day after Boxing Day she ran into Derwent. He was back from Cairns. 'Paul?'

'You know, from Sarajevo, he was in the hostel ... '

'Oh him! I don't know. He went off somewhere - Magnetic Island - with this American guy who had been in the Gulf War, or fighting Osama Bin Laden, or something. A bit of a hunk but really screwy, I think he was some kind of user, you know? How was Christmas? What are you doing for New Year?'

They were going to go to Engeneered together. It was to be held in a space that had been a furniture warehouse. Derwent knew the guy who was doing the lighting design and the main D J, Sailor, who would supply them with the necessary vitamin supplement.

She walked back to Therese's pleased, her brooding regrets about Ollie broken. What would she wear? Should she ask Cal? She hoped Michiyo would come.

She decided on cool and simple. She had the perfect shoes - lovely sandals, pink with low heels.

Cal was going, Michiyo gave her the money for the ticket and the drug but might turn up later.

She and Cal and Derwent and a friend of Derwent's, Opalene, met in a cafe. They sort of ate and took a tablet. God knows what it was. She snapped hers in half with a knife despite Derwent's protestations and was anxious as Cal tossed his into his mouth and beamed.

Then they went for drinks. The bar was very crowded and she felt completely at home. It was so easy to meet people and talk. She didn't want to leave. They were on the street fighting for a taxi.

They walked. Which was such fun.

Engeneered was dark and threatening with lights dashing like screeching wraiths. The music was an esoteric, highly refined version of what you would expect.

Derwent waved to the D J. 'Isn't she great? This is perfect to get things off. Off. Are you off? I'm getting off. Eeehad, it's happening. Is it happening for you? It is for Cal, isn't it mate? I can tell. You're a sly one.'

Cal's eyes were twinkling.

They were dancing.

The wraiths had become coloured spirits dancing with them.

She wanted to be by herself. To think. There was something she wanted to think about. She waved that she was going away for a moment.

As she turned she saw Ollie. Her heart almost stopped. He noticed a figure in the crowd freeze and focused. His gaze revealed his struggle to accommodate an appropriate attitude. She watched as anger, pain, pride swept his face. He managed a gallant nod and turned back to his dancing.

She was transfixed with regret.

Then she found herself making her way to the edge of the crowd.

She bought some water. And remembered she wanted to think about something.

She looked around. She felt cold. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be in bed with a cup of tea. She hated this party. She thought she would go back to England. She could probably pick up some courses when uni started again. She could be back into her course by the end of Hilary term. Lyntie would be there, they could get together, together.

A boy was standing in front of her, saying something. He seemed astonished and frightened. He began yelling. It was Lyntie.

Her vision panned. There was a security guard. 'Excuse me,' she said to Lynton.

She approached the security guard, Lynton shouting in her ear.

'Excuse me ma'am',' she addressed the burly woman, 'this man is harassing me.'

The security guard swung her attention onto the petite figure in the lovely top and short skirt. 'Is he? Leave the lady alone sir, she's not interested.'

Lyntie started to shout things.

She walked off. As she did she noticed the security making calm down gestures to Lyntie and then, as he was about to go after her, reach out to put a restraining arm on him. The last thing she saw was Lyntie knocking it aside.

She walked calmly away from Engeneered.

New Year erupted.

'Happy New Year,' she said to herself when she was on a well lit, busy road. She waved to some people in a car who had yelled greetings.

She unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and toasted the New Year. Oh, she remembered what she wanted to think about - some jewellery. She would steal it from the shop where she had bought Therese's necklace.

She made her way back to the bar they had started from.

She bought a drink and started to feel warm again. It was actually a hot night.

She looked around. The music crashed in on her. She moved a little to it. A girl next to her asked her where she was going. 'I've already been,' she replied. The girl cracked up and told all her friends. They all wanted her to say something again. She was asked if she wanted to go on with them, they were going to Engeneered. 'Oh,' she said, 'I've got to get back by two. I'm staying on a yacht and the launch is picking me up on the beach then.'

She told them she was from Nassau. She loved Sydney, thought she would stay. She felt the temperature drop, she had gone too far.

'Nassau? Where's that? Fiji?' one of the girls said.

She resolved not to overplay again.

They were gone. She was talking to some young queens. 'Why don't you go to Engeneered?' she said, 'I know ... I know some guys who are going and I think it could be your kind of space.'

'And what would that be?' the sharpest demanded.

Everyone was so paranoid tonight, it must be this drug. 'Oh you know, I think you've all taken what they've all taken.' Why should she care?

One of them screamed with laughter and two of the others joined in. The sharpest turned away.

'You're so cu-ute,' one of the queens said.

She moved away.

A leather queen was staring at her. He was big and hairy. He winked. She winked back.

She watched him approach. He had the lumber almost down.

'How're you tonight little lady?'

She thought about this. 'It hasn't been an auspicious start.'

He looked taken aback. 'What are you doing out and about by yourself?'

'I'm not.'

Again, he looked taken aback, glanced around. 'Where are your friends?'

'Everywhere.' And as he looked as though he was going to back off she said, 'You gotta cruise.'

He suddenly grinned, 'Too right.' There was a pause as he examined her. 'You're really cool.'

'I'm so thirsty,' she said, 'this water is not really doing it. What sort of beer is that?'

She watched him as he went off to the bar for her. She wished Michiyo would turn up. If only she'd brought her mobile, why had she been so afraid of losing it? Cal would be ... He did the walk better from behind. His bum looked cute peeping over the top of his leather strides beneath the chaps. She wondered how old he was.

She sipped the beer and wondered if this is what his piss would taste like.

'Who do you like here?' he asked, nodding at the crowd.

She looked around. They all looked like really silly nowhere people. A girl was brooding on a stool.

'Her. And you?'

'Really? Thanks.'

She didn't bother correcting him.

'Oh, did you mean ...? '

There was an almost awkward pause.

'He's O K,' he said. 'I'm looking for a play mate. To play some interesting games. All non penetrative. I'm not really into that.'

She nodded.

'Ever done anything like that?'

She thought she might tell him she'd never done anything at all like that but it seemed too much to say and implausible though at that moment she thought of herself as a virgin. She was a young girl, looking out through these worldly eyes.

She wondered what she could learn. She liked the idea of non-penetrative. She was over penetrative. What if she'd caught Aids from Ollie, or anything? What a fool she had been. How right she had been not to meet him again. She was swept by despair and regret. He had been so sweet. None of that could have happened. She must be hallucinating on this stupid drug Derwent had given her. She hated Derwent, he was just a stupid pusher with illusions of ... delusions of grandeur.

'That sounds interesting,' she said, 'but I ... you have to be in the mood.'

He pondered her and then nodded. 'Are you?'

'Not tonight.'

'Pity.'

After a while he moved off.

She left the bar.

Too slowly it became clear that there was not going to be a taxi.

She began the walk back to Therese's. It seemed endless. Sometimes she slipped her sandals off. She walked deliberately on the yellowest Moreton Bay figs; some of them burst deliciously against her soles. She sat next to a boy prostitute in a bus shelter. She prayed for a bus. She walked on. Looked at some clothes is a small designer shop; they might do for some occasion - a student event, say a ... She wondered if Australian students gave barbecue lunches at their parents' homes. Not the sort she intended to mix with. She was going to start crying about Lyntie, he had been so upset. He had been yelling about thinking she'd been kidnapped and killed. She couldn't cry here. She would cry at home. Please god don't let Therese be visible in any condition, she couldn't talk to her, didn't want to look at her, she could - not - say - a - word.

She was walking down the hill towards 'Longleat'. A cool breeze rustled in the leaves of the big Moreton Bay at the bottom of the hill and reached her. A fruit bat squealed. She felt relief. Soon she would be in bed, she would remember what she wanted to think about. All she had to do was get past Cerberus Therese. She would sleep. Tomorrow ... She would ring Cal after she'd rung Michiyo, late.

'Longleat' lay enchanted. As she walked its panelled corridor she became a princess returning to her chamber after a wearisome ball at which she had to dance gallantes and sarabands with suitors who did not suit. She sank onto an oak bench. She slipped off her sandals again to feel the cool of the terrazzo. Some people yahooed outside. She was safe. She was at peace. She would never leave 'Longleat'. Why did she go out tonight?

As she opened the door her mood was shattered by the reek of cigarettes and the whimperings of the TV. Therese was slumped in front of it on a strange falling forward position, her mouth was horribly open.

An excited thrill ran through her; Therese was dead.

She hesitated. First she should switch off the television which was giving her a headache. Then she should empty the ashtray which was giving her a headache. Then she should take the gin bottle away and wash the glass because it didn't look good. Then she would push Therese upright and call the ambulance. She would go into Therese's room and find the lapis necklace because she could return that tomorrow and ... No. Not return. She had other plans at that jewellers. What did she care about the necklace? It was Therese's.

She switched the T V off and went into her room. Then she went to the bathroom and very gently took off her makeup and moisturised her skin. The sunburn had faded. Her pupils were dilated. She would take a Valium and drink a litre of water.

She stepped through the living room carefully ignoring its occupant.

She sat up in bed with a glass of water. There was another beside her. She took the Valium. She sipped the water. She wondered if she ought to do something about Therese but that all seemed too difficult. She needed to sleep and think about something. In the morning it would be better. She could say she had wished Therese a happy New Year when she got in at .... two-thirty and ... It occurred to her that Therese had been drinking herself to death. She supposed she'd have to move. Now what ... ? She would get up and in the afternoon go into the jewellers and see what they had and how they had it. There must be some way ... Therese's body would have gone by then. When she rang the police she would ask for Robbie.

She got up and went to the bathroom. She glanced at Therese. She wondered if she should do something, it might not be too late. But Therese wanted to die. It was perfectly understandable, obviously it all got too hard eventually. She was probably very dead and the whole building - Lady Tierney - would be disturbed by the fuss. Ten o'clock tomorrow would be a much more reasonable time. She supposed she would have to ring Kath but she could manage that, after all. She could get Robbie to do it but it might be better to do it herself, she could say something to Kath ... something that would give the woman pause to reflect.

She woke feeling very well and then, at the sound of the television, remembered she had to deal with Therese.

She opened her window. The slight breeze smelled of rotten figs and some flower. She felt cool and safe, her sheets were smooth. Last night did not happen.

No Therese. No gin bottle. The room was clean. The window was open and the breeze blew a channel of freshness through.

'Happy New Year.'

She jumped.

'Didn't mean to startle you.'

'No. Oh, happy New Year. It's going to be a good one.'

Therese advanced with a mug of tea. 'If you say so. What did you get up to?'

'Oh I went out with some friends - to a warehouse party.' She was beginning to realise she felt very well, relaxed, radiant. She mustn't be too bright. 'They're probably still there.'

'Came in early did you?'

'Early? No, it must have been - oh, fourish. What time did you go to bed?'

'No idea. I didn't check. No fella?'

'Not last night.'

'That's the way. Take your time. No need to rush. Marry in haste, repent at leisure.'

Therese settled with her tea.

When she came out of the bathroom Therese had nodded off. Cigarette smoke was being whipped away by the breeze.

She thought she might go for a swim and then into town.

Coming back into the building after her swim she ran into Lady Tierney. She wished her happy New Year.

Lady Tierney invited her up for afternoon tea.

'I'm sorry but I am going into town to do some shopping.'

'I don't think the shops are open today dear. What was it you wanted?'

She explained she had been sent a cheque from England to buy some jewellery for Christmas and hadn't had a chance to choose a piece yet and she wanted to write and thank ...

'How sensible. But I don't think you'll find ... a good jeweller open. Tomorrow, everything will be open.'

Lady Tierney's flat took up the whole top floor of 'Longleat'. It was decorated superbly in its original furniture.

After they had settled she asked if she might look at the paintings. It was too soon but her breath had almost been taken away by the astonishing beauty of the room.

Lady Tierney accompanied her.

'They're all Australian, Michelle. Sir Hugh ... indulged my interest. Are you interested in art?'

She said she was, very interested but still only learning about Australian art.

'That's by Margaret Preston, she is my favourite. I believe she's fashionable again. I ... knew her when she wasn't and she was kind enough to allow me to view her wonderful work. She grew and developed, they all do. Some are better earlier in their careers. I like the Whitely there better than the things he did later on when he was famous. Miss Preston ... Look at this, she had such sympathy for the Aboriginals. No-one did at that time. She persuaded me to buy some ... Sir Hugh hit the roof but Miss Preston was right, of course. The framing cost more than the work.'

It was a bark painting of a lizard enclosed in a deep frame.

'Is it ... Did you buy it in ... How old would it be?'

'I don't think anyone knows. Margaret Preston bought it on one of her car trips into the middle of Australia. It must have been the sixties - the early sixties when I bought it, she was moving into a nursing home and rang me ... I had it framed in about 1963. I went to this fellow I knew in Beard Watson's - that was a beautiful store where I used to buy gifts and cards to send overseas. In those days the cards were all gaudy or funereal. This man used to import beautiful cards. I lost contact with him when he left Proud's. It's a jeweller's, he moved there after they closed Beard Watson's but ... ' she examined her guest for the briefest of moments.

As they sat over their tea she breathed in the heavenly scent of Lady Tierney's flat. It couldn't be potpourri, it was so subtle. Perhaps it was Lady's Tierney's talc, she would go to the bathroom before she left and check.

'And how is Mrs Sullivan?'

'Oh. She's ... She's not out and about much, she's a ... She pops down the road occasionally to the shop. We've had a quiet Christmas together.'

'I sometimes worry ...'

'Yes. She hasn't been very well lately.'

'About her of course but also about you. I fear there are times when it must be very difficult for a young woman to ... I am sure she's very grateful for your company and help. I know you do the shopping ... '

'There isn't much. I just get it delivered from the supermarket. I'm out most of the time. I work, you know.'

'Yes,' Lady Tierney said in a way that for a moment alarmed her. Just how much did this woman know?

'I'm afraid Therese is ... not out and about much. Lately.'

'If you ever need ... Always remember I'm here if you need to get away sometime. We old ones love the company of the young.'

She asked if she might use the bathroom.

It was vast. The tiles spellbound her. But she did remember to look in the cabinet. It contained a jar of cold cream and a bottle of eau de cologne. The scent was very faint. The bottle had probably been there since the fifties.

'I was admiring the tiles in your bathroom. Are they from the fifties?'

Lady Tierney looked surprised and then briefly annoyed then she said pleasantly and briskly, 'Oh no dear, this flat was built before the War. I think you'll find it's all deco - art deco, they call the style.'

'Oh, I know that.'

They adjourned to the lounge room. Lady Tierney asked if she'd care for a sherry, or ... something else? They settled on a whisky.

As she stood in Lady Tierney's foyer being bade good-bye she was again spell bound. 'I must take this with me, this must become part of me, ' she thought as Lady Tierney again said that if she ever needed to ... just have a little chat ...

She moved a little and thanked Lady Tierney. She said, 'May I just look at this lovely painting?'

Lady Tierney watched as she turned in the direction of the painting.

It was an interior looking out into the garden. Sunlight spilled from the garden into the room. On a table near the window stood a vase with a disarray of tall and tangled flowers, evidently picked from the garden.

She was there, in the room, looking out into the garden. She noticed the sunlight falling on the flagstones. She ordered herself to breathe it in, to take it in and make it part of herself. She was suffused with warmth and peace.

'It was painted by an artist who ... It must seem very old fashioned to you. My father bought it for my mother. D J's used to have a wonderful gallery in those days. I think it reminded him of his own home. It's from the twenties. It does seem to breathe the atmosphere of those times, don't you think?'

She turned just as she was about to go. 'Could you recommend a jeweller?'

'Oh dear, I only know one or two, jewellery was never .... They used to go to ... '

It was the very jeweller she had in mind.

The one who had sold her Therese's necklace was serving her. She had noticed a much older man and had preferred him. She would see how it went.

Doubtless they had cameras everywhere.

'Yes. I bought some jewellery from you before Christmas now I want to get something good.'

'I remember, the lapis lazuli necklace, for the beach.'

This was not good.

'I need something plainer, more serviceable for ... Lady Tierney suggested - thought I would find the right thing here.'

She was blundering.

She had awoken feeling depressed. Now she was irritable and her thinking was slow and unclear - Derwent and the drug he had pushed on them, whatever it was. She felt furious. She couldn't afford this sort of thing.

'Were you thinking of another necklace?'

The older man who had been hovering now approached. 'And how is Lady Tierney? So good to hear the fine old names being mentioned.'

She thought she managed the smile well - cool and a little sparkle. 'She's very well. I had tea with her yesterday. She did think this was the place to go for what I need.'

'And ... I'll serve Miss ... ?'

'Woodburn.'

'Miss Woodburn. You could look through some ... Did I hear you tell Rohan that you had a necklace in mind?'

'No.' She was rather pleased with Woodburn. God no, 'Michelle', would have been enough. Damn that drug. 'I am looking for a nice, plain, serviceable piece of jewellery to dress up a bit but not to make too much fuss.'

'I see.'

Rohan moved a little aside for the older man but made it obvious he was not leaving.

'Miss Woodburn - I served Miss Woodburn for Christmas - I believe she is very pleased with her selection.'

'Oh yes, thank you Rohan. Rohan was most helpful,' she assured the older man, 'but this time I want something ... a little less colourful - not gold, Rohan.'

They were both staring at her, fascinated.

Oh dear, not good at all.

She smiled back.

The older man pulled himself together. 'Was it for a special occasion? A wedding?'

'No. I just want some ... superb piece to dress me up when I feel like plain and simple. I hate all this fuss around.'

'Are we thinking of diamonds?'

'I think so, everything else is ... too much. Except emeralds. But they seem to ... want to do things with emeralds. A simple necklace or even the right bracelet.'

Rohan was on his way.

She and the older man browsed around the shop, considering. Rohan laid three velvet boxes on the counter. They took their time getting back to him.

She thought the first one was like something some new film star would have borrowed to wear to some second rate awards ceremony and refused trying it on. She allowed the older man to clasp the second around her neck.

'It sits quite nicely,' she conceded to the mirror Rohan had brought her.

'Rivière … ,' the older man breathed, ‘terminated – highlighted … dramatised by an Argyle diamond finial, Fancy Pink,’ indicating a pink diamond at the centre of the third necklace.

'Oh, I didn't know they had diamonds in Scotland.'

'No. They're Australian. You only get them in Australia. They're very rare.'

After he had unclasped it she sighed. 'Those two are very nice. But I need to think about what I really need. I would like to see some bracelets but today it would be too much. I'll drop in again. I need to think about it properly.'

'Of course. Put those away Rohan.'

'Do you mind if I just have another look around? It'll help me to form an idea.'

'Please.'

'I'm also thinking maybe of an Art Deco piece, something with a bit of atmosphere.'

'Well if Ms Woodburn is thinking of simple ... Art Deco does tend to be elaborate. But as madam wishes. We have a few estate pieces.'

Over tea in a cafe she was furious with herself. She had really fucked that up. She raged against Derwent and New Year's Eve. She could have done that a million times better, just cornered Rohan and kept her distance while working out a way of slipping something into her bag. Shit!  Now they knew her. To some degree. She would have to pop in again to smooth things over but obviously that place was a no go. She'd have to find some other place. O K. That was a better idea. She'd strike while they didn't recognise her. She'd find another place. She thought there was a likely one along Castlereagh Street. Maybe she'd be better going to a small establishment, maybe one in the suburbs. The Art Deco thing was a good idea, there must be very good second hand jewellery shops. She'd ask ... Someone. She really needed a local friend. Maybe some gay guy, not like that pathetic Derwent, someone who knew that sort of thing. Someone you could really talk to.

She'd never had a lot of friends.

She stopped off at a pharmacy chain store on her way back to Therese's and disconsolately dropped a tube of toothpaste and a bottle of eau de cologne in her bag.

The alarm went off and a security rushed up to ask her if she minded him looking in her bag.

'Of course not,' she said.

'Did you pay for these?'

'Oh. I was just thinking about buying them, I must have forgotten. I don't want that toothpaste, I was just thinking about it but I'll take the eau de cologne. How much is that?'

She interrupted the lecture with, 'I come here frequently, ask any of the girls. If a customer can't forget an item when they're in a rush without being accused ...  As if I would steal a tube of toothpaste and a bottle of cheap perfume. I just wanted it to give to my niece.'

She unsettled the manager enough for him to end by merely suggesting maybe it would be better if she shopped elsewhere in future.

As she gazed out of the train window at Woolloomooloo Bay she realised her heart was pounding. A small smile played on her cold lips.

That Would Be Me - serialisation of a chick lit (if you must) novel of neo colonialism and identity

THAT WOULD BE ME

Chapter Five
in which our heroine overcomes adversity to celebrate Christmas in her own way and is forced to confront her depressing, abandoned past 

Kath insisted she join her and Mort and a few friends on their 'yacht' for Christmas Day.

Therese had declined and she was worried about being seen as betraying her flatmate if she accepted the invitation. She told Kath she'd ring her back.

'You go. I hate yachts - it's not a yacht in any case, it's a launch, not very big. You end up getting sunburnt no matter what you do, how careful you are. I like my creature comforts. That Kath needs her head read. We usually go to a hotel. Mort must have got to her. I bet he's invited his business mates. Poor Kath, she didn't know what she was getting herself into. Desperate to get married. Oh well, she's done that now.'

All of this turned out to be true enough.

The best part of her day was accompanying Therese to mass in the morning. The priest was in a white robe and sandalled, the service unexpectedly informal. The congregation were invited to greet one another. When she turned around to greet someone behind her she discovered she was shaking the hand of the policewoman Robyn. Therese put a large note in the offertory. She felt ashamed of the coin she had contributed.

As they were both leaving the flat she pressed a note of equal value onto Therese to give to the mission where she was going to help serve Christmas dinner.

She headed off to the Rushcutters Bay marina where Mort was taking her and some other guests on board.

She realised she had made a mistake as she stood on the pontoon waiting for Mort's boat. Near her were some others. She guessed they might be her fellow voyagers so decided to get it over with - she went up and inquired. They were. She introduced herself.

Her heart sank when the boat pulled in. It already seemed overcrowded. Everyone else on board was at least middle-aged. Mort  all but dribbled at the sight of her - to Kath's satisfaction and rage.

The idea was to take everyone to a popular picnic spot, more or less accessible only by boat, and there to have Christmas dinner.

Eskies impeded movement about the boat. The conversation was desperately jolly. Kath was screeching, demanding laughter, ordering her guests to get into the champagne and beer.

The unloading took forever with the small rubber duck making infinite journeys back and forth to the overcrowded beach. People were ordered overboard so the eskies could be ferried.

She had not brought a swimming costume so was told not to worry, to 'skinny dip' as it was a nude beach. Male eyes swung at her when Kath demanded this with a thin overlay of levity.

Several women had tried to help Kath but she seemed to feel her responsibilities had to be borne alone. She kept casting eyes at Mort to see if he could see what difficulties she was labouring under, begging for his approval. Mort on the bridge was too busy drinking and smoking a cigar with a couple of elect males.

There appeared to be no shelter on the beach. They had not brought beach umbrellas. One of the guests suggested they try somewhere else. 'What a stupid idea! We're almost unpacked now.' Kath's eyes were demented. But she was able to turn and join in the cheering as one of the men stripped and jumped overboard.

'That's how we do things in Australia, we're down to earth. We could all swim too,' Kath said to the other women still assembled on deck, 'save Ted all that trouble of coming back and forth in the ducky.'

'You won't get me in that water,' one woman responded, 'I grew up near here, it's shark infested.'

No-one was comfortable on the beach. Two dogs dashed madly about until one of the men in their party yelled obscenities at them. Its owner paused from trying to corner it to yell back, 'It's Christmas for Christ's sake! There are kids around.'

Kath wobbled up to her, champagne bottle thrust out. 'I bet you don't get this in England.' Her eyes were now bloodshot with desperation. When Kath tried to pour champagne into her plastic flute she withdrew it so that the champagne slopped onto the sand. Kath grabbed her hand and forced champagne into the nearly full flute. 'Drink up!' she hissed. 'It's Christmas. You wouldn't be getting this in ... Look at it!' Kath gestured wildly at the vista.

She looked around. The slim curve of the beach was covered in Christmassing parties. Children dashed about here and there. A little girl clutched her fists to her eyes, crying. Some of the parties were nude, they seemed more decorous.

The sun was terrible.

'We'll go back on the boat after we've eaten. Why don't you guys go for a swim while we get the food going?'

She thought she'd better help.

Kath seemed unable to let anyone assist. 'Get those oysters in the shade, they'll go off. Mort paid a ... No, we'll have the turkey later. Where's the cocktail sauce for the prawns? Put the bread and butter ... '

There was no shade. The champagne was warm. The men stood around drinking beer, one was leering contemplatively.

Behind the beach the bush shimmered, in front of it the water shimmered. It was not yet noon. Relief seemed everywhere about them and unobtainable. She could feel the sun burning her forearms. Why hadn't she listened to Therese?

She had to have something to drink. She approached the knot of her party, gathered on the industry of Kath but they were ignoring their hostess’ labours, guiltily or righteously superfluous to them. The women turned away from her. The men seemed to turn in a bunch to leer at her.

'Isn't this lovely?' she said to the kindest looking woman near her.

'Yes. It must be very different ... I hope you're not homesick, are you?'

'Not at all.' She considered for a moment that this was only too true. She'd made up her mind to ring her family in front of Therese tonight to prove something or another. She looked around again and the scene resolved her deep discomfort with this party of middle aged harridans and their leering, pompous spouses. The bush screened the back of the beach, rising shadowy green to a canopy below which white branches twisted and silvery white trunks streamed with pink grey ribbons of shedding bark. Pleasure craft gambolled on the harbour, a huge Manly ferry paraded by. As soon as she could, she would go for a walk in the bush. There were shallow wide stone steps up towards a dressing shed. There would be a tap. That must be the way out. She would escape. There must be a car park just up there somewhere, She had noticed they hadn't gone very far from the city, Manly was over there. She could catch a cab to Manly Wharf. Probably someone, Australians being what they were, would give her a lift. She would be out of here soon. She would lie on her bed all afternoon. She would make her phone call in front of Therese and go out as planned with Michiyo and Cal.

'Where did you get that frock? I be that's an import.'

She turned, pleased, to the woman in crisp white shorts and an evidently new blouse. She was very tanned and had a yachting cap with a blue and gold badge on the front perched on top of a bush of pepper and salt hair. She had heard some of her dry, whimsical remarks as they had throbbed their way and had determined to get to know her. 'Of course. St Tropez.'

'You must have plenty of money.'

'Oh I do.'

The woman turned away.

The women seemed to be exchanging satisfied looks. They turned away again. She suddenly hated them. They were blowzy cows tricked out in the most absurd taste. Look at that one! My god, in shorts.

'Here love, try this.' A man thrust an oyster shell beneath her nose. She had never eaten an oyster. It looked vile.

'No thanks. But I'd like a prawn.'

'I bet you would,' one of the men growled.

There were guffaws.

She was resolved. She was getting away from this. But when she was ready. She was thirsty and she wanted to try some of that food. She went forward and took the biggest prawn from the mess of them held by a platter. It spiked her with its feelers as she broke its head off. She pried its shell away from underneath.'

'Here, put the shells in this,' a man proffered a plastic plate, 'You'd better use a knife to run down its back. Got a knife for deveining the prawns, Kath?''

'Find it yourself, I've had this.'

He found her a knife and showed her how to take the vein out. 'Now give it a wash in the harbour.'

It was delicious. She attacked another.

Most of the others were guzzling oysters.

'Want some cocktail sauce?' Kath was at her side with a plastic bottle. She spurted some on a plate for her.

'Have you got any juice?'

'Juice?'

'Yes, like orange, or ... Any soft drink would do, I'm really thirsty.'

Kath suggested a beer.

She smeared some pâté on a biscuit.

Mort thrust a rag of flapping turkey skin towards her mouth. She bit at it and the men cheered. She let it fall from her mouth onto the sand and deliberately helped herself to another prawn. She found the knife and slit right along its back before carefully dragging the vein out. She rinsed the prawn in the sea and eating it headed up the beach towards the dressing sheds.

'Where are you going?' Kath yelled.

She felt thirstier than she had ever felt before in her life. She turned the tap over the wash stand on and stooped to drink. The water was warm and tasted metallic.

She headed straight on up past the dressing sheds and there was a track.

She proceeded up its shallow broad steps marked by sandstone edges. She was feeling better and better as she left the beach behind. She looked around. She was in the bush. It was still and very warm, as she had always imagined it would be. This was Australia. It was Christmas Day. She thought she had read a children's book with a bush Christmas in it. It was just like this. She was swept by joy. She felt so at home here, in this still solitude. She knew she belonged here. She was meant to be here. This feeling was proof.

She swirled around with her hands in the air.

The climb was beginning to get steep and the track ran into another at right angles. She didn't hesitate, she just knew where to go.

The track meandered and rose, sank again. The bush thinned out. She was winding along a coastal track through strange low gorse and thorn bushes. Cliffs fell to the harbour on one side of her, a steep impenetrable hill of grey green and olive rose on the other. Things rustled and scrambled at her approach. She thought she would soon be able to see Rushcutters Bay across the Harbour. She had obviously taken the path away from Manly but she was enjoying this even though she was getting burned. It must end soon.

It didn't. Her thirst was becoming terrible. She was lost. She waved at a boat for help. If it came in she would plunge down the cliff somehow and they would take her off and probably drop her off near home. Or would they ring for help? Why hadn't she brought her phone?

The track seemed to be closing in on her, thorns scratched at her bare legs. This was ridiculous, she should turn, she could even go back to Kath and Mort's party. But it must lead somewhere and she had been on it so long she must be near wherever it went.

Rocks heaved their back out of the heath like whales. She noticed tiny yellow flowers amongst the serrated hard leaves of a strange little bush which sprang up in stalks; pink stars flustered amongst softer grey leaves, the pink was so bright. Stretching up and before her, the heath land now revealed patches of brooding colours - brown and purple reds emerged from what had seemed a uniform sage. The rocks were blotched with papery lichen, some of them seemed to sparkle, they were silvery really when you looked at them. A stunted tree like a fir struggled out of the waves of hard little shrubs. A huge black snake vanished from a rock in front of her with a flash of the reddest red. It must have been a mirage, or something. It had been so quick and silent but she couldn't go on. It had been huge and so black and red. It might come back or there might be more. She dare not sit down. She was afraid to go back. She forced herself to take a small step on. Then she couldn't move. She would have to stand there. She was afraid to wave to a boat in case that attracted the snake's attention, if there had been a snake. Someone must notice her; they would come in close to the cliff to see if she needed help. Their boat would toss on the waves near the shore and she would scream for help. They might send a helicopter and winch her up. She would thank them and have a bath when she got back, it would be very hot on her sunburned skin. She wondered where she and Michiyo and Cal would go tonight. She would wear her pink silk. She must get some decent jewellery to go with it. She would lift it. She could not move. What could she do? If she screamed and screamed it might frighten the snake away and someone would hear. It might startle the snake into attacking. Even though it had vanished in a blood red bright flick, it had looked aggressive. She had to sit down, she was starting to get dizzy. She could not move, her knees locked at the sight of the narrowness of the path. If she could only sit down, she could lie along the path and roll sideways into the bush, it must be cooler down there. Even if the snake did bite her she would only be frightened for a while and then she would die peacefully, like Cleopatra. The bite wouldn't hurt much, it would be like an injection with two needles. All this would be over. Her mother might come out to Australia to weep over the body. It would do her mother good, she would have something to talk about and make herself special for the rest of her days. Her mother would be the talk of the terrace. She would meet Therese. Her mother could use her money for the air fare and funeral. She wanted to be buried in Australia. Would they find Lyntie and invite him? He would be jealous that she had found her way into the real Australia while he could only act as if he were expert at it. He might have gone back.

The steep hill seemed to have a declivity in it and then a shallow oval containing a particularly brooding shade of green. 'A pool,' she thought, 'I will force my way up to it and there will be a pool with clear water. I will lap it like an animal.'

A man with a beard appeared. His broad hairy brown chest was crossed with the red straps of a back pack, a bottle of water bounced in a sling against his hips.

'Hello,' he said.

'Merry Christmas.'

'Yes. Merry Christmas.'

'Isn't this beautiful?' She waved expansively at the Harbour and the hill.

He nodded appreciatively.

'I am just waiting for a snake to go away. I frightened it. So I am giving it a few minutes to get away.'

'A snake?' He looked very pleased. 'Where?'

She realised he was a backpacker. 'It's gone. But it's better to let them move right away in case they get alarmed ... just in case. It doesn't happen often.'

They stood respectfully.

'I would like to see it.'

'Unfortunately, it's gone. May I have some of your water?'

Nothing had ever tasted so good. The bottle sparkled before her eyes as she gulped and she wondered where she should steal the jewellery. It was all she could do to not drink the lot. 'Oh sorry,' she said, professing surprise she had drunk so much, 'I must have been thirsty.'

'That is O K.'

'I think we can go on now.'

'Are you walking to the Spit too?'

'Yes.'

'Perhaps we walk together?'

'She made room for him to pass and followed behind. She knew she had been saved by God, that unknowing he was an angel sent. She would never doubt again.

Soon the bushes thinned out, the rose and joined another, broad and easy. Then there were trees again.

'You want to rest here?'

She told him that her name was Shelley, she had always lived in Sydney. She came from Wahroonga on the North Shore. She had left a family Christmas at the beach because she had to get back to meet friends for a party but really she had wanted to get away and walk along this track because she used to walk here with her best friend who was now in England.

His name was Olaf. He was missing his friends too, he had left them in Vietnam where they were doing some work helping some villagers put in tanks.

It was soon apparent they found one another attractive.

Olaf shared some dried fruit and the rest of his water.

They moved off the track into some trees and began kissing.

Olaf sat on a rock and pulled her to him.

All she was aware of was the hair on his chest and his smell - sweat and sun block.

'Is this O K?' he asked.

She put her arms around him and pushed forward between his legs.

He pulled her t-shirt off and undid her bras.

She undid his belt and unbuttoned his shorts.

He smiled and stood up to wriggle out of them.

She looked down and saw his stout hairy legs ending in hairy socks and hiking boots. She laughed and slipped her hands into his briefs and caressed his buttocks. They were hairy too, they felt wonderful. She ran her hands softly over them.

'That is really good,' he said.

She peeled his underpants down. As he manoeuvred them clumsily over his huge boots, almost falling. She steadied him. 'All right?' And pushed him back down on the rock. His cock rose up against his stomach, it was thick. She knelt down and flicked at it with her tongue. 'I am the spirit of that snake,' she thought. Then she licked his cock. Soon it tasted fragrant and heady. 'The taste of basic cock must be universal,' she thought.

He pulled her up and undid her shorts, ran his hand down and placed it over her pussy and began teasing her lips with a finger.

She smiled and pushed forward into him so that his finger rode into her. She caressed his hips and the top of his buttocks. 'This is the best Christmas.' And she laughed for it.

He held her back to look at her. 'Are you O K?'

'Yes. I'm having a really good time.' She snuffed him in and the dry bush and the sea air off the Harbour.

They held each other and then were together, rocking.  He stood up and moved her around onto the rock. She lay back with her legs around him, her feet held against his bum as it clenched and rocked.

She was examining him, his sexiness, when she suddenly came in a dazzling burst of light. Then she was aware of him, struggling to finish. She watched. It seemed to be such an effort for him, almost painful. She felt sorry for him. He was so sweet and such a sexy beast. She ran the soles of her feet over his bum.

'Ohht, ohh.' And he sighed.

As they walked on he reached out to hold her hand and when the track allowed it he put his arm around her shoulder.

They passed in front of a house, then another and along a narrow beach lined with houses. Someone offered them champagne from a lawn. Olaf looked at her and they were on the lawn, sipping champagne and admiring the view. They were invited in and given smoked salmon and turkey. She played at being bashfully in love and dumb.

Someone had to leave, did they want a lift? Olaf still wanted to walk to the Spit.

She smiled and asked how far it was.

Apparently it wasn't all that far. They were welcome to stay if they wanted to, someone would give them a lift later.

They were given a slab of Christmas cake and waved good-bye to.

As they strolled down the beach they heard - 'Weren't they heavenly?' 'You could say she was.' 'So was he, why'd he have to go and put his shirt on?' 'Why'd she?'

Olaf smiled at her and slipped his hand into hers again.

She stayed bashful and dumb.

They caught a bus into town at the Spit. By Martin Place Olaf was realising she intended to go her own way, he asked if he could come with her.

She sadly told him she was going to her grandmother's - first - and ... She sadly shook her head.

He was staying at Bondi, would she come over for coffee? Or they could go to a movie.

She made a date for the day after Boxing Day.

He gave her a loving good-bye kiss.

Therese was just in herself. 'You're early. How was it?'

'You were right.' And she burst into tears. She told Therese it was because she was so sunburnt.

'You are too, look at your neck. Didn't you ... I asked Kath to keep an eye on you.' Therese shook her head in savage disgust.

Then the phone went.

'She's here. She's very sunburnt Kath, I asked you - ' Therese held the phone out to her.

She shook her head and ran sobbing to her room.

Therese knocked gently and entered.

'It was awful. I was getting burnt and I was too shy to get changed and go for a swim, the men ... '

'Did any of them lay a hand on you?'

'No. No. They just ... made comments and the women went along with it.'

'Did Kath?'

She nodded through her tears.

Therese rose impressively from the bed. 'You have a shower. We'll put some tomato on that sunburn, it's the only thing for it.'

After the shower and the laying on of many slices of the Tom Thumb tomatoes she slept.

She woke to the ringing of the phone.

'Yes. She's here.'

...

'She's sunburnt, naturally.'

...

'Well no wonder.'

...

'What went on, Kath? What went on exactly? She's a sensible girl, there must have been a reason.'

...

'So you should be.'

...

'I mean Kath, you were the hostess. She's a young girl. From overseas. I don't know what went on but I do know she's sunburnt and came in in a state. She's not the type to tell tales out of school but she did say she didn't like the behaviour of the men. It doesn't take a lot to come to certain conclusions, does it Kath? A pretty young thing from another country, not knowing what was going on amongst a lot of bastards ogling and make comments. I wouldn't have let her go if I'd thought ... Naturally I thought you'd keep an eye on the proceedings. I don't know what's happened to you Kath but you know one thing, I've got no time for women who don't look after one of their own when the men are molesting.'

...

'There are many ways of molesting, Kath, as you know only too well. If you'll think of old Mr Kitchener and his ways. If we hadn't all stuck together on that one he would have got away with it. In any case he did, for years. I'll probably never know what went on exactly but I've got a pretty good idea and I'll tell you what, I'm disgusted.'

...

'No you can't talk to her, she's sleeping.'

..

'No I won't get her to ring you later, she's upset enough.'

...

'Why would she run away from a Christmas party in the middle of nowhere and come home in a state then Kath? Wake up to yourself woman, people don't do things for no reason.'

...

'I'm glad she did! They deserved their Christmas spoiled. And you can tell that Mort from me I'm thinking of having the police onto him. They can't get away with things like that these days.'

The phone was slammed down.

She thought she'd better deal with this now. She got up.

'That was Kath,' Therese said after she'd sat in front of the T V. 'I gave her a piece of my mind. She wanted you to ring her back but I told her not to hold her breath. I don’t know what she’s become. She never used to be like that, was all for women's rights when that came in, called herself Ms and all that.' She took a deep draught of her gin and tonic. 'How are you feeling?'

She said she felt much better, the tomatoes had done wonders.

They watched the children's film in silence for a while. It splashed about the screen in fascinatingly artificial colours. Then she rose and got herself a whisky. She doubled what she usually poured into the glass.

After she was settled in front of the T V again Therese said, 'Thank you for the necklace dear, it's too much. But I'll always treasure it. I'll put it in my will for you. It'll suit you too, especially when you're older. We'll never get another one like that.'

It was lapis lazuli. She had agonised over a suitable gift for Therese, finally rejecting the idea of a scarf as too obvious. She had gone into a very established jewellery shop and made herself familiar with the place and the assistant as she tried on pearls, then as if whimsically, decided she needed colour for summer. The lapis necklace had been very much more expensive than a scarf but not much in comparison with the pearls. She would never wear it herself. 'Oh look at the gold clasp,' she had exclaimed to the assistant, 'isn't it awful?' She had caressed the necklace. 'The blue is lovely. I'll take it! It'll do for the beach over Christmas. You need something bright, don't you?'

She told Therese she was going to ring her family.

First she rang Cal and confirmed their meeting with Michiyo.

'You got me up.' Lainie said, 'it's only ... eight. Oh, here's my mother, she must've been in the loo.' There was a silence then Lainie came back on again, 'Oh, thank you for the Australian bracelet. I don't know where I'll wear it, it's very modern. Did you get our parcel?'

Her mother's tones ameliorated the disgust she felt for her sister's accent.