Isobel Blackthorn's Blog, page 44
February 19, 2015
Welcome to Australia
I woke this morning at about five o’clock to the sound of cock crows and magpie chortles, knowing that my third piece, Welcome to Australia, would��appear in On Line Opinion�� today.
It’s a controversial piece and in the pre-dawn darkness I feared some would misread it and accuse me of being anti-Australian. Then I thought that if they did, it would only serve to strengthen one of the themes.
My thoughts wandered on to all the different sorts of people who are against our treatment of asylum seekers. From human rights lawyers such as Julian Burnside, to doctors, actors, musicians, writers, teachers, religious��groups and social advocates, Liberal voters, Labor voters, Greens voters, all sorts of people motivated by all sorts of factors.
The bottom line for all of us is that we care.
Why do I care? What motivates me? Before the break of dawn I recalled my relatively late entry into the asylum-seeker cause. It was entirely the result of investigative journalist Antony Loewenstein’s book,��Profits of Doom.��A fast-paced read taking the reader from Curtin to Christmas Island, then on to PNG and beyond. Of concern to Loewenstein is the role that transnational corporations such as Serco and G4S and Transfield play in the detention of asylum seekers. He calls them vulture capitalists. I think that’s an apt description.
And such corporations don’t restrict themselves to running detention centres. They run our railways, our hospitals, our courts, our prisons, our defence services, anything in fact that governments outsource. Even, if our government has its way, Medicare.
I can only conclude that asylum seekers held in indefinite detention are profiting these vulture corps in exactly the same way as we profit the very same corporations the moment we hop on a train. Corporations who also profit from our taxes, which our governments hand over in payment for their services.
Asylum seekers are the ultimate victims of this system. Like prisoners, the longer they are there, and the more of them there are, the greater the corporate profit.
Yet there is no separation here. We are all victims of the same system.
I think that is why I am so passionate about the mandatory detention of asylum seekers. They are lambs, sacrificed in the name of a dollar god.
If you are interested, you can check out my other writing by following this link to��Asylum. Or poke around my blog. Cheers, Isobel
Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: antony loewenstein, asylum, asylum seekers, Australia, boat people, globalisation, illegals, neoliberalism, profits of doom, refugees
February 18, 2015
Necessary journalism, say the greyhounds!
I wasn’t going to say anything about the greyhound baiting revelations on ABC’s 4 Corners Monday night. It turned my stomach. I thought it a terrific piece of investigative journalism. What it must have taken to film all that!
Then last night on 7.30 Report I listened to Liberal Senator Chris Back stating that he had drafted��a Bill that would require that the source material be handed over to some ‘authority’ within 5 days of acquisition, arguing that such handovers would expedite action to stop whatever it is that is going on.
He’s assuming of course, that said authority has no vested interest and is immune from corruption and has the capacity to take such swift action.
Meanwhile, whistleblowers and journalists beware!
No journalist gaining access to any material that might harm the reputation of any organisation will be allowed to hold onto that material and produce a film that explores and probes the issue in question.
There is a reason why this freedom exists for journalists, this ability to investigate behind the scenes then reveal to the public their findings.
It is not to create a sensation, although a sensation is often the result.
It is to expose hidden truths, hold the corrupt to account, help keep all pockets of society, especially those beyond the reach of ordinary citizens, in check.
If this Bill is passed, journalists will be forced to hand over source material to a government or other authoritative body whose job it will be to investigate the matter.
The potential for corruption and suppression of truth is enormous.
In other words, if this Bill passes we will most likely only get authorised, sanitised, heavily redacted versions of events, those that our government of the day wants us to see.
I thought that sort of censorship and control of the media was evident in countries with dictatorial or totalitarian styles of governance. Those with appalling human rights records.
Not Australia.
Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Chris Back, dystopia, Four Corners, freedom of speech, greyhound baiting, Mainstream media, social democracy, totalitarianism, Whistleblowers
February 16, 2015
Welcome to Australia
I’m Australian, a migrant, a ten pound Pom in fact. Like all migrants I feel half in half out, as if I’ll always have at least a toe wedged in the door marked exit. Not that I would wish to return to my homeland, for what would I do there? Who would I know? Besides, my children are here, my immediate family are here, so here I must stay. And I do like it here, even though I think the nation takes itself too seriously. I’m convinced if we stopped trying to prove to the world that we matter, we would matter a whole lot more. There is much grace in simply being. I think the true custodians of this land could teach us this, and a lot more besides.
I was dismayed to see trending on facebook that��Egypt is bombing IS targets in Libya. With Jordan already in the fray, I’m concerned that the Middle East will crumble, leaving Saudi (bleach clean hands raised in a pretence of obsequious loyalty) and Iran. I am reminded yet again of the fine and ancient cultures, the sophistication and grace of the people, beautiful people and their gifts old and new, perishing.
Of course our impeccable Prime Minister, ever on the hunt for new ways to oppress those fleeing the bombs, the rape, the torture, is now threatening to instantly reject asylum seekers without documentation. (You forgot? Too much of a hurry you say? Bad luck mate. Goodbye.)
Tony likes to be tough. He thinks it proves he matters.
Meanwhile, also trending on facebook is the news that a man has ejaculated (allegedly) on a woman at St Kilda festival.
Charming. That, too, is no way to prove you matter.
Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: asylum, asylum seekers, Australia, boat people, Egypt, illegals, ISIS, Libya, nature of humanity, refugees, Tony Abbott
February 12, 2015
Abbott’s barrow of inhumanity
I realise I have a number of Liberal supporters in my friendship network. I am not Liberal in a political sense, but I understand and respect those who are. If I didn’t, then I couldn’t in the next breath champion social democracy. A pluralistic society includes a wide range of views/beliefs/party affiliations and so on.
Having said that, I cannot condone our current leadership. Yes, all politicians are apt to be very one-sided, to push their own barrows and in so doing make��all the other barrows seem full of falsehoods and bad policies.
Abbott, however, is beyond the pale.
And he’s back to his old self. His attack on the Human Rights Commissioner yesterday took my breath away. All aggressive accusations, his defence packed with lies and omissions. He was vitriolic and entirely inappropriate. His reaction was so strong it echoed reactions of despots.
In People of the Lie, Scott Peck said the defining attributes of an evil person are the capacity to lie, and an unwavering belief in those own lies, and to deny, as if in righteous innocence, those lies. Out of that denial, comes the attack/defend dynamic.
I think Abbott displays these attributes. I find him verbally abusive, in much the same way as a perpetrator of domestic violence.
Malcolm Fraser is with me on the same page, and I have included his press release in full here:
“���Enough is enough���
The government had the Australian Human Rights Commission���s report on children in detention on 11 November last year. They have tabled it on the last possible day. It is now clear that the attacks made on the Commission, especially by senior ministers, has been designed to make it easier for the government to ignore the Commission���s report.
The government’s response is a disgrace. It is based on a lie. They claim to have saved lives by stopping the boats and that the trauma inflicted on children by detaining them, is a small price to pay. They deliberately chose an inhumane way of stopping the boats.
If the Australian Government worked with our regional neighbours and the UNHCR, to process people humanely in offshore processing centres in Malaysia or Indonesia, then there would be no market for people smugglers. Refugees would be flown to their final destination. This is not supposition or hearsay. This was the policy model adopted during the exodus of refugees fleeing Indochina following the Vietnam War. It would work again.
The real question for the government is why did they choose to do this, despite the trauma and harm done to hundreds of children, when there was a decent and proven way of achieving a much better result.
The attack on the integrity of the Human Rights Commission and its President is only to be expected of this government, who uses bullying as their default tactic. The attack is consistent with the way the government has approached legal decisions that have gone against it. This government has also refused to listen to our highest Court, undermining the rule of law and ignoring International Law.
The only conclusion we can really draw is that the inhumanity inflicted on these children is part of a policy of deterrence, which the government has pursued relentlessly. Australians needs to understand that this government has chosen an inhumane path when a compassionate path was available to it.”
Rt Hon Malcolm Fraser AC CH
I’m not a politician.��I’ve explored the issue of asylum seekers here on my blog, in articles such as The moral descent of Australia’s policy on asylum seekers.��in which I��assert that the asylum seeker strategy amounts to,��“an ideological war…, one in which the victims of war and persecution in their own lands have become the victims of a war playing out in ours.
Under attack is the very fabric of our morality. We are being systematically conditioned into accepting the cruel treatment of others as necessary and inevitable…”
I also voice my views��in my novel Asylum, available in Ebook format at
and all major distributers.
Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: asylum, asylum seekers, boat people, fiction, government, illegals, literary fiction, Malcolm Fraser, novel, social democracy, Tony Abbott, women's fiction
February 5, 2015
What does it take to care about asylum?
The only horror most of us are prepared to watch is via our movie screens. If we took the time to put ourselves��in an asylum seeker’s shoes with one droplet of empathy and a tiny bit of imagination, we’d be mimicking Edvard Munch’s The Scream.
Meanwhile, asylum seekers are taking extreme measures to protest their incarceration. A hunger strike is no small thing.
Yesterday I received word from a friend on the ground. She said the temporary protection visas, the ever-present threat of being rendered stateless or deported back to certain torture and death was so horrendous, case workers and volunteers were in despair.
How much resilience can we expect of people?
For how long do we expect such cruelty to go on?
Every day I read harrowing reports from those in detention centres. I read as well the anguish and desperation��in the hearts of those front-line volunteers who visit asylum seekers regularly.
I hear too, the frustration voiced by so many that we as a society are not doing enough. We are failing in the eyes of the world, and we are failing in the eyes of our own people.
Stand up Australia! Pledge support! Do something, anything to let the asylum seekers and their supporters know you care.
Why? Why bother? Because doing nothing makes us little better than those who turned their backs on the concentration camps and pretended they were not there.
Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: asylum, asylum seekers, boat people, illegals, refugees, trauma
February 4, 2015
ASYLUM will be released in days!!
I am delighted to announce the forthcoming release of ASYLUM in both Kindle and e-pub formats. I just had a preview of the Kindle version and it looks terrific! Far, far superior to reading a blog post.
I am grateful to all the followers of my blog for engaging with the serialised version of ASYLUM and to those who urged me to publish an e-book version instead, which is more polished than the blog version.
ASYLUM is over three years in the making. It is my first novel and one I feel close to, not least because it contains the theme of asylum seekers, juxtaposed with hapless Yvette Grimm, a visa overstayer struggling to find her��way��in Australia as she waits for her residency application to be decided.
You can read more about ASYLUM��here.
And many thanks to Geoff Brown at Cohesion Press for making the publishing process a breeze.
Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: antony loewenstein, asylum, asylum seekers, Australia, boat people, illegals, profits of doom
February 1, 2015
Writers for social justice
I missed out on modern history at school and confess that for decades I shied away from gaining much knowledge of the rise of fascism as it all seemed too ugly, too horrific, to delve into.
Now I’m finding it hard to put down Anna Funder’s All That I Am, a novel based on real events in the��period between WWI and II, when Hitler rose to power and those on the Left, the communists and socialists of all stripes, were purged. The captured were rounded up and put in prisons until there were so many that concentration camps were created to house them. ��Thousands of journalists, writers, poets, activists and intellectuals fled Germany to live in exile as refugees in bordering states. Denied the right to work, these refugees existed on air. And they were forbidden from political activism of any kind. Breaking this rule meant deportation. ��
Many were made stateless. Others were hunted down and killed in exile.
They were dangerous revolutionary times, when humanitarianism was pitted against ugly despotic power.
A similar sort of energy hangs over the world right now. An intensification of power and control versus the revolutionary spirit. The rise of neo-Nazi far-right parties throughout Europe with an equally if not more powerful rise of the Left. Not the Left of old. Something new and fresh is emerging, populist in flavour, youthful, visionary, determined to represent the people, not ideology. Anti-austerity movements emerging in Greece, in Spain, in Italy, and even, in its own way, in Queensland, Australia.
The road ahead for these movements will be fraught, but out of goodwill, out of hope, out of respect, I shall not add my voice to analysis and criticism before they’ve had a chance to prove themselves.
Meanwhile, the old-school persists in habits that have long since been discredited. The treatment of refugees a case in point.
Rounding up refugees (asylum seekers) and putting them in off-shore detention centres is somehow worse than what Hitler did. Those seeking asylum, the same sorts of people that were purged by Hitler (with his lists), the��journalists, writers, poets, activists and intellectuals, having already fled persecution, are being imprisoned without trial and tortured, not by their own country, but by ours. There’s something so nightmarish about it. For anyone held captive it is a horror on an epic scale. And here we stand, yet more journalists, writers, poets, activists and intellectuals, risking our own freedoms under new anti-terror and surveillance laws, speaking out on behalf of common humanity.
Anna Funder’s All That I Am is well-researched and factually based. Her contribution to our awareness of that era is profound.
In my own small way I have attempted to do the same. My forthcoming novel Asylum, is situated against a backdrop of events occurring at the time of writing, of asylum seeker boat turn backs, of wretched conditions on��Manus and Nauru, and of the intractable cruelty of the Department of Immigration (and border protection).
(Asylum will be available in e-book format in February 2015).
Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: AlexisTsipras, All That I Am, Anna Funder, asylum, asylum seekers, boat people, concentration camps, Dora Fabian, Ernst Toller, Gestapo, human rights watch, illegals, Podemos, Power, Queensland election 2015, Syriza, war
January 21, 2015
Abbott the Abuser?
19 Jan 2015Meanwhile, the Asylum Seeker Resource Centre posted a press release on their website��stating that, ”the Abbott government is about to become the first government in Australian history to knowingly ��and deliberately let an asylum seeker die in their care.
A young Iranian man in a Darwin detention centre has now gone a total of 76 days without food. Days from death. Lost 30 kilos. Lost all hope. Abbott plans to let him die.
Today, he told us that he fled Iran to escape being locked up and tortured ��� only to suffer the same fate in Australia.
We call on the Abbott government for an Act of Compassion. They can relieve his suffering and save his life by releasing him into Community Detention immediately.”
This could be me, you, anyone in fact born into an unhappy fate. My head hangs in shame of my government, in shame of my country.
I hear some say in the face of domestic violence and child abuse, ”you must forgive, otherwise you will end up bitter.” – What do we do in the face of ongoing violence and abuse meted out to asylum seekers by our abusive��government, a scenario in which many of us feel the agony of bearing witness? Am I to forgive? Of course not. Am I too forget, push aside as too damaging to my own psyche? Nope.
Those of us who stand in solidarity are crucified, our flesh weeping blood from so many nails as our friends on the other side of the fence are violated, tortured and oppressed every day.
Acceptance of violence and abuse always happens after the fact. I may not forgive the perpetrator but I can find acceptance in my heart, for I cannot undo time, regret is futile and I would not wish to give the perpetrator the additional satisfaction of ruining my whole life. While the violence and abuse continue however, there is no acceptance. There is only an agony of heart. There is only the awareness that we exist inside a living hell, a hell equal to all the other living hells, from the Inquisition to the Nazi death camps.
There will always be those who condone or even approve of the internment camps, just as there were those who approved of the Inquisitors.
I’m always amazed by how many who choose to stand on the side of the abusers, the perpetrators, those prepared to deny the horrors, the truths. Mothers who blame��their daughters for the bruises on their faces, bruises from marital punches. Citizens who vilify victims of terror for fleeing the bombs, the bullets and the blades.
As I hang from the nails embedded in my flesh, my wounds weep all the more knowing this.
Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: asylum seekers, Australia, boat people, child abuse, domestic violence, Hunger strike, illegals, Inquisition, Manus Island, Nazi death camps, Perpetrators, Resettlement fears, Tony Abbott, trauma
January 17, 2015
Radicalisation and a kiss
Happy 2015! What a jolly time of it the powers that be are having – Obama and Cameron posturing like ancient philosophers on the problem of radicalisation and how to combat (combat?) hardline ideologies. LMAO – Mirror mirror on the wall…
Islamic fundamentalism grows in catch up with Christian fundamentalism and neoconservative/neoliberal fundamentalism.
There, I’ve answered it for you in a nutshell. But let me explain, in case you don’t get it yet Mr O and Mr C, (although I’m certain you get it very very well):
In a reality of linear and concrete��thinking, where in Scripture this and that is taken to be literally true, fundamentalism will always beget fundamentalism.
Meanwhile hardline neoliberal policies of post GFC austerity beget a downtrodden populace, a populace with a dim yet tangible sense that they’ve been conned. (You will have heard the term bankster Mr O and Mr C?)
As ever, the two extremes, Christian and Islamic, foment each other, and as the pot is stirred by Western Supremacism (your way or the highway, eh), the utterly disaffected become so pissed off they’ll take up a bomb or a gun. It’s an obvious response. Happy days, say the Crusaders.
Radicalisation exists because we have a word for it, our gluttonous media slavering over every ounce of it. Hat’s off to the think tanks for this latest bit of spin in this new wave of propaganda. My, how adept you must think you are! Adept at creating thought wars, the battleground a dense fog, a miasma. Must be a fun job that.
Woo hoo say the corporations, circling vultures, waiting to swoop and eat their fill as cities fall and people flee. There’s the arms trade, there are the government contracts, there’s the private militia/security business, there’s the reconstruction, and there are the billions of dollars of profit to be made out of asylum seeker detention centres. It’s a bonanza.
Yet��two women kiss and canoodle and are thrown out of a cafe in Vienna, and the owner is forced to apologise after over��a thousand people take to the street outside in protest. If humanity is capable of mass action in the face of a cafe kiss, then little wonder you��are afraid of us, so afraid you��stamp us down with anti-protest laws and beefed up surveillance and security.
Let the woman in the hijab be. Let Islam, a religion of peace and grace, be. Let fundamentalism slip away on the wings of an open heart free of fear and hatred. And let neoliberalism fall, as all empires fall, and we can say farewell Mr O and Mr C, and welcome in a new and better age of fairness and goodwill.
Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Arms trade, asylum seekers, dystopia, empire, Fundamentalism, government, hard-line ideologies, Islam, Lesbian kiss Vienna cafe, Mainstream media, nature of humanity, neoliberalism, New Age, Power, Radicalisation
January 16, 2015
Asylum – 12th and final instalment
Asylum will be available in e-book format (Kindle and epub) in February 2015 for only $4.98.
Instalment 12: In which Yvette makes a new friend in Myer’s men’s department…
3.9
A week later and Yvette couldn���t motivate herself to move a muscle. She���d returned from her second and this time self-funded visit to her doctor an hour before and gone straight to her room and to her bed. At the surgery, after a humiliating few minutes explaining how she hadn���t managed to have an ultrasound, a further ten minutes enduring cold-hand prods and the icy pad of the stethoscope pressed hard here and there, the doctor-witch told her with considerable enthusiasm that she was having twins. Twins. Not one but two tiny foetuses sloshing about inside her. The doctor had been delighted, just about bouncing in her seat with vicarious jubilation as if those foetuses were her own progeny.
Yvette was as ebullient as a fish-hooked mullet. She pictured Thomas in his tiny unit surrounded by old books and half-worn clothes, at one with his violin in an altogether different world that spoke of serenity and ethereal heights. She pictured Josie, slapping paint on another canvas in wild abandon or behind the bar in Malta, laughing gaily as she served a throng of merry-making tourists. Thomas and Josie free to be who they were and do as they wished. She couldn���t help thinking she���d been served a double dollop of misfortune, her freedom curtailed by the burden of carrying twins and the uncertainty of her immigration status. So much for prophecy; she was suspended in the troposphere, with no idea where she���d fall.
Several hours passed before she managed to rouse herself.
Back at Heather���s she sat on her bed and flicked through a holistic-healing magazine that she���d taken from the pile in the living room. Heather was in her room, meditating. Yvette could hear the dulcet tones of Tony O���Connor through the wall. Angus was in the kitchen, at work as always, and with the evening meal cooked and eaten, Yvette was leaving him to it.
She closed the magazine and stroked her rounding belly. After her doctor���s deplorable revelation the bovine resignation she���d grown used to that rendered her impervious to her vicissitudes had disappeared, leaving her at the mercy of her misery that surrounded her like a dark haze.
She pictured Thomas in his tiny unit surrounded by old books and half-worn clothes, at one with his violin in an altogether different world. She pictured Josie, slapping paint on another canvas in wild abandon, or behind the bar in Malta, laughing gaily as she served parties of merry-making tourists. Thomas and Josie were free to be who they were and do as they wished. She couldn���t help thinking she���d been served a double dollop of misfortune, her freedom curtailed by her pregnancy and her immigration status. So much for prophecy: she was suspended in the troposphere with no idea where she���d fall.
A sudden burst of the setting sun reflected off a neighbour���s shed and shafted through the window. She lay down. Tony O���Connor stopped chiming through the wall. A remarkable quiet consumed the house in his absence. She let her mind drift. She was almost asleep when her phone broke into the hush.
���Hey, Yvette.��� It was Debbie. ���Mum told me. How are you?���
Something in Yvette reared defensively. ���Oh I���m fine.���
���Sorry I haven���t phoned before. But you know how it is, husbands, kids and all that.���
���That���s okay.���
���Well. Hey. Congratulations.���
���Thanks.���
Yvette could have tried to sound more affectionate, opened up to her sister a little. But she didn���t open up.
Her sister went on. ���You���ll need a lot of support. Especially being so inexperienced.���
She expected Yvette to respond to that? The woman was infuriating. Then Debbie launched into a vivid description of both of her natural births, ending her vignettes with, ���well I guess it helps to have a loving husband by your side.���
���It does,��� Yvette said, thinking Debbie���s insensitivity was, once again, incredible.
���If there���s anything I can do.���
���I���ll let you know.���
���The least I can do is offer advice.���
There was no stopping her. Advice spilled from her mouth like a galloping horse.
���Will you breastfeed?���
���Of course.���
���Good. Then get in touch with the Nursing Mother���s Association. They really helped me with my first.���
���I will. Thanks.���
���I better go,��� she said, adding with a nervous laugh, ���Alan doesn���t like large phone bills.���
3.10
The following Saturday, after an idle morning spent separating clothes that no longer fit from those that for now she could still wear, Yvette grabbed her shoulder bag, marched down the hall and closed the front door firmly behind her, bidding Angus, spread-eagled under the chassis of his bus, a casual see-you-later as she picked her way over the bus-junk scatterings on the path.
The walk into Fremantle was pleasant, a cool breeze dampening the sharp heat of the sun. Once again she admired Scot���s Church and she felt exalted, almost religious just for a moment.
She pushed open the side door and entered the stale warmth of the hall. Fiona greeted her as she passed. A gathering of choir members were chatting over by the urn.
Yvette glanced around and saw Heather talking with Sue, whose sturdy frame looked formidable in a clingy T-shirt tucked into tight jeans. Heather caught Yvette���s eye and waved. She returned the greeting. As Heather���s gaze slid away, Yvette admired her friend, that earth mother look of hers, the long russet dress, shoulders draped in a patterned silk scarf. She exuded self-assurance and easy charm. A magnificently self-contained woman not given to sudden rushes of emotion, yet not inhibited like Leah and without the rigid attitude. Heather���s bountiful goodwill and tireless conviviality were, she decided, little short of saintly.
Heather walked over, nodding hellos to the others as she passed. When they hugged, Yvette wanted to nestle her whole being in her friend���s embrace.
Heather pulled back and looked at Yvette closely. ���You don���t seem that happy.���
How did she do that, see beneath the surface so astutely? Yvette gave her a weak smile and said, ���I���ll be fine.���
Heather gave her hand a quick squeeze.
Fiona called the choir to attention and, for the benefit of new members, launched into the same preamble about finding your voice as she had that first time Yvette had come. Sue passed round the hat.
���I have some disappointing news and some exciting news.��� Fiona looked around. ���Which first?���
���Get the bad news out of the way,��� a woman called out from the back. Yvette glanced at her, taking in the long and sun-bleached hair, the suntanned face, the full lips and warm brown eyes.
���Okay Fran. Our application to perform at the next Fremantle Festival has been unsuccessful.���
There were murmurs of disappointment.
���Don���t be disheartened. The organisers have been flooded with applications.���
���I bet Kavisha Mazzella���s choir got a spot,��� a woman in a green beret said churlishly.
���Yes, they did,��� Fiona said, turning to the woman. ���And that���s to be expected. They���ve been doing this a lot longer than we have.��� Fiona looked concerned. It seemed she wouldn���t allow disharmony to take hold in the choir. ���We���re sure to be accepted the following year,��� she said. ���And that leaves us plenty of time to rehearse.
���And the good news?���
���We���ve been invited to perform at the Fairbridge Music Festival.���
There were some cheers and hoorays.
���Where���s Fairbridge?��� Yvette whispered to Heather.
���South,��� Heather said, quickly. ���In the country.���
With a commanding, ���Now let���s make a start,��� Fiona took up her place at the foot of the stage.
The choir formed three groups in a wide arc. Yvette joined the altos, standing beside Heather at the back. Sue, Fran, and the woman in the green beret stood in front of them. The choir began with the lullaby, Inannay. Yvette remembered the song but felt tentative. The choir sounded polished, the harmonies perfected, riding the emotion of the song, blending and rising and falling like an ocean swell.
She tuned in to Heather���s voice, clear and distinct, and projected her own, keen for her voice to merge with her friend���s and hers alone, as if in the resonance of their two voices their souls would merge, and all Yvette���s childhood memories, too often brought to the forefront of her mind since she came to Perth, would melt away.
Then in a burst of illumination she pictured Heather���s childhood. And her heart went out to her friend. Snared in her own past she had too readily overlooked Heather���s, the brutality of her mother���s sudden departure, the loss and the hardship she must have born. Yvette felt an opening. It might have been the first time she���d experienced empathy. And she recognised in Heather���s keenness for her friendship, and her respectful reserve, the stamp of those early years.
3.11
Outside, the sky had clouded over and there were spatters of rain. The moment choir practice had finished, Heather had rushed off to see a client. Left alone on the pavement, Yvette���s life seemed suddenly empty. The rain began to fall heavily, so she headed to Myer���s department store for shelter.
Browsing aimlessly, she wandered downstairs and found herself in the men���s department. There, as she stood by a row of smart shirts, she had to fight off a craving for a meat pie. It was her latest impulse, one she found revolting and certainly emanating from the beings inside her, leaving her wondering what sort of uncouth blaggards she was spawning. Then, as the craving faded, she felt an all-consuming urge to sit down. Breathless, she walked on a few paces and clutched the edge of a table display of novelty underwear.
A middle-aged man in a suit was fastidiously arranging cellophane-wrapped ties on a rack nearby. He glanced in her direction and seeing her distressed, rushed over. ���Are you all right Madam?��� he asked politely.
���I just need to sit down.���
He darted behind the counter, wheeled out a swivel chair and beckoned her to sit. ���I���ll fetch you a glass of water.��� He headed off, returning moments later with a glass of ice-cold water, a napkin and a shortbread finger biscuit on a small plate.
Yvette sipped the water. ���You are so kind,��� she said, and noticing his name badge, added, ���Gordon.���
His face lit with interest as if in calling him by his name she���d broken the spell of formality. ���You are most welcome,��� he said graciously. He had a florid sort of face, with a generous mouth and kind brown eyes. She was drawn by the theatricality of his manner, the ironic intonation he applied to even the most ordinary of sentences. She took in the silvery-grey of his hair, the creases about the eyes. He must have been about sixty.
���What might madam be looking for? Perhaps I can help.���
���Please, call me Yvette.���
���Yvette. An unusual name.���
���My mother wanted to call me Jane. But Grandma Grimm, that���s my father���s mother, said, ���Oh not plain Jane!������
���Yvette Grimm.��� He paused and said reflectively, ���names can be such a curse.��� Then he covered his mouth with his hand. ���Oh, I���m sorry. I didn���t mean������
���It���s fine.���
���You see, I was almost Gerard Card.���
They both laughed.
���Thankfully my father insisted on Gordon.���
He glanced at his watch. ���Is that the time? I must leave at four on the dot. I have an appointment.��� A look of concern flashed in his face. ���Will you be alright?���
���Yes.���
���I don���t like to rush you. Are you sure you���re fully recovered?���
���Yes, I���m fine. An appointment is an appointment. You mustn���t be late.���
���It���s a rehearsal.���
���You���re a performer?���
���No. I���m directing a play I wrote.���
���My friend is an actor.��� As she spoke she realised she hadn���t seen Thomas since her eve of New Year���s Eve party and felt a pang of remorse. She really had to stop turning off her phone and ignoring her messages.
���Is she?��� Gordon said with interest. ���Stage, film or television?���
���He, and strictly amateur.���
���Perhaps he���d like to audition for a part.���
She felt a twinge of uncertainty. ���I���m sure he���d be delighted,��� she said, ���And your play is called���?���
������Trouble and Strife.��� It���s a Restoration comedy.���
���Sounds fascinating.���
���Why don���t you play a part too?��� He looked straight at her.
She gave him a coy smile. ���I can���t act.���
���Of course you can. And I have the perfect role for you.��� He placed a hand over his heart and said with false tragedy, ���Penelope Pinchgut.���
They both laughed again.
���I���ll think about it.���
���Oh, do. Do.���
He reached into his breast pocket and handed her a business card.
She stood and thanked him for the water and the biscuit, then she wandered through the other departments with no intention of buying anything and on outside. The rain had stopped and whorls of steam rose from the pavement, the whole milieu glistening in the sunshine.
3.12
She strolled home past the Fremantle Oval and on to Fothergill Street where the narrow pavement follows the curve of the imposing wall of the Fremantle Prison. Beyond the wall was a vast four-storey limestone building. She recalled the brochure she���d read in her doctor���s waiting room saying that the convict barracks were built by the convicts themselves in the 1850s using limestone quarried on site. Backbreaking work carried out by those unfortunate souls, wrenched from their families for the most trivial of misdemeanours.
The brochure had gone on to explain that the prison had been the primary place of incarceration in Perth ever since, notorious for hangings, floggings, escapes and riots, but now that the inmates were moved to a new maximum security prison in Casuarina, the site had gained World Heritage status, and conservation groups and government bodies had turned the prison into a tourist destination. Hence the glossy tri-fold. It must have been a matter of considerable state pride. She���d wondered at the surgery what it was about people that they should want to visit places where horrific things had happened, tourists in shorts and straight socks snapping photographs; coach loads marvelling over cell sizes. It was a grotesque happenstance: Cultural curiosity of that sort should at best be solemn and reverent, at worst a horror invoking experience. Now, as she passed by the prison, she thought it ironic yet inevitable that incarceration should dominate Australian heritage. Better to preserve the memory, she thought, than raze the buildings for another stadium-size shopping mall.
She crossed the road and went down an embankment towards the back entrance of the Fremantle hospital, taking a short cut through to the streets of South Fremantle.
Angus was sitting on the front porch when she cornered the street. As she approached he stubbed out a cigarette. She felt a stab of contempt for him and her mind swayed, another part of her self-remonstrative. She was too judgemental, too quick to condemn. And she recognised in an instant her mother���s view of her father.
She rounded the hedge, noting the absence of tools and bus detritus, and before she entered the garden she steadied her thoughts.
���How was your day sweetheart?��� he said following her inside.
She wished he wouldn���t call her sweetheart. She knew the word had no substance, a word conjuring romance and intimacy, neither existing between them.
She sat at the kitchen table. Angus leaned against the bench, hands spread wide, and stared out the window.
���I wonder what Leichhardt would have made of this place.���
���Relieved after all that desert.���
���Yes, but the desert fascinated him. The quest, the adventure, the discovery.���
He really could talk of nothing else. Curious, she asked him how the script was progressing.
���Extremely well. Almost finished in fact.��� He paused. ���There���s only one problem.���
���What���s that?���
���I need to get the setting exactly right.���
He turned to her abruptly, his eyes deep pools of hopeful delusion beneath his bushy mono-brow. ���The desert is calling me. Leichhardt is calling me.��� He turned back to the window. ���And I���m gonna heed that call.���
She wanted to cry out in exasperation and urge him to go all at once. The magnificent unreality of the script had taken on another almost insane reality.
���And your bus?��� she asked lightly, feigning a casual engagement.
���All packed up and ready to go.���
The front door creaked open and Heather entered the room. ���Angus?���
���I���m off.���
���Don���t you want dinner first?���
���I���ll get something on the road.���
They held each other in a warm embrace. Yvette looked on. Why couldn���t she and Debbie be like that? She suddenly found herself cold-hearted cast in Heather���s light.
���Safe travelling,��� Heather said, uncharacteristically pensive.
���Don���t worry about me.���
Yvette looked away with a twinge of remorse. Now he was leaving she almost regretted not making more of an effort to get to know him.
Yet when she watched him head down the hall the farewell smile she wore belied the churning of the most powerful will that ever was, the will of a mother protecting her young, wily, cautious, ready to kill. It came as no surprise that before he closed the door behind him that out trailed her memories of her father.
3.13
That evening, when the sun had set and a soft breeze blew in through an open window, Yvette sat on the empty sofa, relishing the comfort of the house free of Angus. For a few minutes she fell into a doze listening to Heather���s meditation music spilling from her room across the hall. Then she stood up spontaneously and before she changed her mind she phoned Thomas, seizing the chance to reconnect, wanting above all to gather her friends around her and extract some fun from life. After a brief exchange about her new life in Fremantle, choir and how wonderful Heather was, she told him about her encounter with Gordon and the play.
���I mentioned you and he thought you might like to be in it. He even has a role for me.���
���For you?���
���He wants me to be Penelope Pinchgut.���
���Penelope Pinchgut?��� he scoffed. ���He���s taken that name from Wycherley���s play, The Country Wife.���
She had no idea Thomas knew a thing about Restoration comedy but she wasn���t surprised.
���Are you interested?���
���Sure.���
She suggested he come over the following night and then she phoned Gordon.
It was eight in the evening when she answered Gordon���s rapid and light knock. He kissed her cheek as she ushered him through to the kitchen. The house, for the first time, was hers: Heather was visiting her father in Rockingham. Thomas was seated in the kitchen with Anthony, who was up from Kalgoorlie for the weekend and had tagged along. Out of curiosity, he���d said. At the sight of him seated cross-legged on a wooden chair, a flash of alarm appeared in Gordon���s face before he quickly replaced it with a smile.
Anthony was staring at Gordon, an airy smile lighting his face. ���I���m delighted to make your acquaintance again,��� he said without proffering his hand.
���Likewise.��� Gordon, averted his gaze.
Yvette was bewildered. That Gordon and Anthony had met before was a shock, as if her existence in Perth had just tightened its belt. She glanced at Thomas who maintained an impervious smile.
���Tea?��� she said, pouring water in the kettle.
���No, thank you,��� said Thomas. Anthony shook his head.
���Thank you I will,��� Gordon said. ���No sugar and just a dash of milk.���
Yvette gestured and he took up the chair at the head of the table, immediately pulling from a manila folder, copies of his script. ���Shall we get straight to it? I don���t have an awful lot of time.��� He passed Thomas a script. Anthony, seated at the foot of the table, leaned forward and held out his hand. Gordon hesitated then slid a copy across the table in Anthony���s direction before setting another on the table in front of a vacant chair.
Thomas leafed through the pages. Gordon was observing his face. Yvette turned to fill the kettle, catching a glimpse of a cockroach scuttling across the kitchen floor and disappearing under the fridge.
When she turned back, Anthony was riffling through his copy of the script with raised eyebrows, his mouth set in an expression of disdain. Yvette could hardly bear to look at him. Neither could Gordon, who was perched on the side of his seat, purposefully facing in the other direction.
The kettle boiled. She made Gordon his tea in one of Heather���s best cups and handed it to him and took up the vacant chair.
���Thank you,��� he mouthed.
There was a long stretch of silence. They were all watching Thomas who sat over his script as if in pose with his elbow on the table, his head resting in a hand.
���Interesting,��� Thomas said at last, pushing the script to one side.
���I thought you might like to take the part of Thidney Thornthwaite.��� Gordon sounded tentative.
���He���s a somewhat rakish bachelor,��� he went on. ���A merchant from London.���
���Who speaks with a lisp,��� Thomas said.
���Yes.���
���Fascinating.��� Yvette detected a note of derision in Anthony���s voice.
���You can manage a lisp?���
���Of courth he can lithp,��� Anthony said.
Gordon ignored his remark and addressed Thomas directly. ���Well, I���m sure he���d suit you better than his cousin Mr Spitzer. He���s a university student from Bath. A forthright young man who pronounces his esses with a rasping spit like Daffy Duck.���
���Really?��� Thomas frowned.
Anthony emitted a disingenuous yawn. What, for heaven���s sake, was he playing at? She felt fiercely protective of Gordon, although she wasn���t sure Gordon had seen the yawn: At least, there was no reaction in his demeanour. He sipped his tea then caught Yvette���s gaze. ���Perfect,��� he said with a smile that faded as it appeared. Then he turned to Thomas. ���Thornthwaite wants Spitzer to marry the gullible Penelope Pinchgut.���
���That���s me,��� Yvette said, with a faltering laugh.
���And there���s Mrs Fanny Bunn, a matronly widow and Penelope���s chaperone. She disapproves of the marriage proposal and is suspicious of Thornthwaite���s motives.���
���Sounds like a good farce,��� Yvette said, encouragingly.
���Oh you���ll love it Yvette. It���s filled with innuendo, double entendres and a great deal of posturing.���
���I���m sure it is,��� said Thomas with a measure of warmth, shooting Anthony a sidelong glance.
���There���ll be lots of mincing walks and sparring,��� Gordon went on, glancing at her again with a wink.
She smiled then turned to Anthony in time to see a look of malice flashing into his face. ���Thornthwaite doesn���t need a lisp,��� he said dismissively.
���Oh but he does.��� Gordon shifted in his seat.
���You already have rasping Spitzer. Why have two male characters with a speech impediment?���
���It���s a comedy.���
���Seems a little overdone if you don���t mind me saying.���
���Well!��� Gordon was visibly rattled.
Anthony shrugged and tossed his copy of the play in Gordon���s direction. Yvette was flabbergasted. The man had no grace at all.
Flushed, Gordon gathered up the scripts. ���Incredible!��� he muttered and made to leave the room.
���Let me show you out,��� Yvette said spontaneously, eager to steer Gordon away from the upset Anthony had caused, at once anxious to distance herself from her friends��� behaviour and reinforce her affection for the man. For an inexplicable reason she found him compelling. Once in the hall, she closed the kitchen door and led him into the living room.
���I���m sorry Gordon. Anthony can be tactless sometimes. He didn���t mean to������
���Yvette, I didn���t realise you had artistic leanings.���
���Oh that,��� she said, following his gaze to her sketch pad open at a rough drawing of the room. ���It���s nothing.���
���You���re an artist?���
���I suppose I am.���
���What medium?���
���Oils. Although I���m not sure the fumes would be good for the babies.���
���Babies? You���re having twins? How marvellous.���
���Thank you.���
���Are you working on anything special?���
She sighed. ���I���m having a hiatus.���
���What���s the problem?���
���I have ideas that require a shift of my skill set.���
���Ah.��� He nodded slowly. ���I know what you mean.��� He shuffled his folder under his arm, took a quick breath and said, ���Would you like to come to my studio?���
She hesitated.
���I���m no expert but maybe we can share some ideas.���
She shoved away her pride. How would she know if he had anything to offer if she didn���t accept his invitation? Besides, it provided another opportunity to spend time in his company. ���I���d love that,��� she said, keenly.
���Would you? Shall we say Tuesday week at two? That���s my afternoon off.���
He made to leave and as they stood in the hall she handed him the pen and notepad Heather kept on the telephone table, and he wrote down his address.
She held open the front door and he reached for her hand. ���I���m so pleased you are coming. I feel connected to you. I don���t know why.���
She looked into his face. His eyes were moist, his mouth loose.
���I sense that too,��� she said, feeling another overwhelming rush of compassion. As he turned and walked away she wanted to gather him up for safekeeping. So strange were these feelings, she could only attribute them to the pregnancy.
She closed the door and went back to the living room for a few moments to collect her thoughts. Then she closed her sketchbook, switched off the light and joined the others in the kitchen.
���Has he gone?��� Thomas said.
���He���s gone.���
���Good,��� Anthony said. ���The man���s an amateur. He should stick to selling suits.���
���That���s unkind.��� And unwarranted. She couldn���t understand why Anthony was so bent on dismissing Gordon���s play. No, more than that, on dismissing the man altogether.
���He���s being honest,��� Thomas said. ���Scriptwriting is much harder than people think.���
Yvette said nothing. She despised Anthony then. And she was dismayed with Thomas for siding with what amounted to a shop window of a personality, dressed all dandy and fine, shocked now she was seeing right through to the back of him, where the vermin, scarcely hidden, were on the march. She said little of consequence after that. There was no way she���d tell either of them she was delivering junk mail. The ridicule would have been insufferable.
Before long Thomas announced their departure and she saw them to the door.
Anthony wandered to the car. Thomas lingered, heading slowly across the garden before turning back and asking if she���d seen Varg. She told him she hadn���t.
���Have you figured out who the father is?��� he said in a low voice.
���No.���
���What are you going to do?���
���Have the babies.���
���Babies?���
���Didn���t I tell you? I���m having twins.���
He gasped. ���You���re going through with it then?���
���What choice do I have?���
���I never thought of you as a mother.��� He looked her up and down. ���I mean, you always seemed too independent.���
���People change Thomas.���
���Maybe.���
���It isn���t a betrayal,��� she said, in an attempt to strike at the cause of his attitude.
���What?���
���My being pregnant.���
���I never see you. You never call.���
���I know. I���m sorry,��� she said. ���I���m having a hard time.���
���Aren���t we all?���
Well end it then, she wanted to say but couldn���t give it voice.
He kissed her cheek and told her he���d call her soon.
Asylum will be available in e-book format (Kindle and epub) in early February for only AU$4.98.
Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: acting, asylum, asylum seekers, black comedy, boat people, choirs, Fairbridge Children's Home, free novel, illegals, painting, play, profits of doom
