Seabird she flies ....

Contents

1. Whole Lotta Love 
2. Easy Rider
3. Millenium Madness
4. White Out
   

Chapter 1

Whole Lotta Love

Jeremy sat atop Bobbara, taking in the 222 degree view from 300 metres up across the rolling, tree covered hills and ploughed fields. The big sky was brilliantly blue with intriguing formations of white, fluffy clouds floating aimlessly on high. A slight breeze blew in from the south, coolish as usual, rolling off the distant Snowy Mountains. His mind was clear, free, floating like the clouds, full of nothing and of everything. Time was standing still, and the past flowed all around him. He sat there, on the smooth, weathered granite, letting the thoughts come and go, likes waves on the shore, washing over him. There was her, and them, and all the others. He wondered what it all meant, if anything.....

Jeremy Ryder was the son of Ben and Jane, from Timerong, the main town in the weirdly named Hilltops region of New South Wales's south western slopes. The landscape there was defined by low lying hills intersected with shallow rivers and creeks snaking though hard, weathered rock of a deep reddish brown colour. The latter were rounded, standing singularly like ancient Stonehenge monoliths or grouped as in a colony of snails. The soil was a course brown and as hard as cement during periods of little rain, though when it did rain the water flowed across the surface in torrents and swiftly turned it to mud. The bush - such as it remains on the edges of the vast plowed and sown fields - was mostly dry and thin, far removed from the thick, impenetrable rainforests and deep ravines cut into layers of sandstone, shale and coal seen along the coast a couple of hundred kilometres to the east. On occasions ridges and weather-worn, rounded, pyramid-like peaks rose a couple of hundred feet above the surrounding fields, remnants of volcanic intrusions which occurred perhaps millions of years prior to exposure. Mount Bobbara was one of these. To the Indigenous people its heights were sacred places of ceremony, ritual and passage to realms beyond death. For more than a hundred thousand years they walked its plains, over its slopes and mountains, till the white men came with sheep, cattle and fences, guns, dogs and a strange way of living. The original tribes are gone now, victims of disease, dispossession and denial of their very existence and rights to the land, and to their Country. In its place the soil is invariably tilled or grazed, fenced or tarred. The only native animals seen are the road kill, wallabies and kangaroos hopped alongside fences looking to escape, and birds screeching in the sky. The magpies are smart and stay out of trouble; the galahs are stupid, standing in the middle of the road picking at seeds, and running into the cars and trucks as they attempt to escape at the very last minute. The Ryders arrived in this part of the world back in the 1830s and had lived on the outskirts of Timerong ever since. Ben's son arrived some one hundred and fifty year later.....

7.20am, Saturday, 22 September 1956.

Timerong hospital's maternity ward was built in the 1920s. A large, 2 storey, brick extension, it had been tacked onto a single storey weatherboard building which had, since the 1880s, served as the district cottage hospital, and for a couple of decades prior a residence. The hospital was located on a small ridge on the edge of town, part of an escarpment which in turn fed water into a pond which sat by its side. It was now called the Queen Elizabeth II Maternity Ward in honour of the recently crowned princess of the Commonwealth who had visited Timerong two years previous. The delivery room was located on the ground floor, next to the operating theatre.

‘It’s a boy, Mrs Ryder. It’s a boy,’ said Dr. Foster as the matron washed down the crying newborn with a warm, wet towel.

‘Can I hold him doctor?’ asked Jane, as she slowly regained clarity following the struggle of the previous four hours.

‘Perhaps later. You should rest now,’ said Matron Whiley, a large woman with a cap that looked like the wings of a bird, or a bishop, and a small fob watch pinned to her right breast.

‘Okay,’ said Jane rather despondently, feeling a strong urge to hold her child, but realising it was not the proper thing to do to question the hospital staff on this.

The baby was taken by the matron into a room just off the delivery area, where it was placed in a crib next to four others. The doctor and other nurse left, and a wardsman came into the room. He helped Jane into a wheel chair and she was pushed back to the ward where the resident nurse gave her an intoxicating milky mixture. It put her to sleep for 24 hours. When she awoke on Sunday morning she found her husband Ben sitting by the bed, reading the morning paper and sipping on a cup of tea.

'Do you have a name for the boy,' he asked.

'I like Jeremy," answered Jane with a croaky voice, her throat dry and stomach both sore from the birth but also empty and hungry. She felt very groggy.

'That's okay," he replied, then buried his head back between the pages of the newspaper. 

'They said you can come home tomorrow.'

'Mmmm,' replied Jane, rolling over to go back to sleep. 

'By the way,' Ben said. 'Would it be possible to see the boy?'

Jane rolled back over. 'Ask the nurse.'

----------------

11pm, Sunday, 24 December 1967.

'Christmas. I hate it,' thought Jeremy as he lay in bed, his head buried beneath the pillow, hands holding each side down, trying to drown out the noise coming from the kitchen. His parents were arguing, again.

The walls of the 3-bedroom, fibro Commission house occupied by the Ryders at 6 Drury Street, Wingun, were thin. Jeremy could hear every inane word as they shouted at each other, the line of communication now completely broken. Across from him, his 7-year-old brother Adrian was sound asleep, worn out from incessant running around.

Jeremy was four years older and looking forward to 6th class next year at Saint Catherine’s primary school. He didn’t mind the nuns, though sitting through mass was always a chore. For some reason he never figured out, selection as an altar boy had passed him by. One of the perks of that little job, he was told, was you got to taste the altar wine. But that was not so attractive, really, he thought to himself earlier that night as he sat in a tall, dark brown church pew while the priest presented a sermon on the true meaning of Christmas.

'At this time of the year, we think of those less fortunate than ourselves – the poor, the sick, and those who have not yet found Jesus. Let us pray.'

Beside him were his mother Jane, older sister Rosemary, and brother. He didn’t know where his dad Ben was, but the options therein were few – the pub or the club. Dad not being a Catholic, it was up to mum to get us to church. Restraining Adrian for an hour on that pew was a chore, so the family usually sat up the back in case he needed to be taken outside.

Mass ended at eight, and the kids were back home and in bed by nine. Shortly thereafter Ben arrived home from the pub, drunk as usual, and full of Christmas spirit. But this was not the Christmas spirit that Jeremy had seen on television. It was something altogether different, darker, and, after all these years, common. The fighting - verbal – with Jane began almost immediately. It was now eleven and they had been going at it non-stop for hours. Idiotic arguing, about issues of no consequence, at least in Jeremy’s mind. Food, money, work. Blame, blame, blame.

‘One tomato! You know I need two for the fry-up,’ blasted Ben.

‘You could go shopping for once, you know’, Jane came back with venom in her voice.

‘I have to work,’ he responded, rather feebly.

‘Work! You spend every weekend down at the bowlo walking up and down those stupid greens in your creams, getting pissed. Every afternoon you’re at the pub. You never do anything with the kids, and it’s up to me to get them off to school and make them dinner.’

‘I cook sometimes, when you’re at work…’ Ben replied.

‘Yeah, Pappa Giuseppe pizzas with an egg cracked on top!’ she snarled.

No politics, no issues of the day, or rational discussions around who they were and what they were doing standing there going at each other, toe to toe, incessantly, endlessly. Or why. At least this was the way Jeremy perceived it, for as long as he could remember. Sleep was not coming this night, so he jumped out of bed and headed toward the kitchen.

‘Can you please stop. I’m trying to get to sleep. It’s Christmas eve….’ he pleaded with his mum and dad. Startled, they stopped, and stared at him for a second.

‘Go back to bed,’ said Jane, and with that she turned again towards Ben and the fighting continued, unbroken. Jeremy stood there, the anger in him rising at their lack of awareness of the impact outside their little bubble. Their excuses held no weight with him. A drunken father – no excuse; a mother who was obviously not happy with the load she bore – no excuse. He shouldn’t have gotten drunk and come home argumentative; she shouldn’t have engaged with him, egged him on. No, they were both to blame for what was happening. Dad more than mum, obviously, but both nevertheless, in his eyes. Jeremy moved towards them, placing himself in between.

‘STOP! PLEASE!!!!’ he shouted, tears starting to roll down his cheeks.

This time it worked.

‘I’m going to bed,’ said Jane, just like that.

Ben smiled at Jeremy, then slowly turned away. He was standing over the stove, looking down at a small saucepan containing cheese and tomato, bubbling away. Unsteady on his feet, he picked up the saucepan, took it over to the table, and spooned out the contents onto a piece of toast sitting on a plate. He returned the saucepan to the sink then sat down and began eating. Not a word was said, as Jane and Jeremy left the kitchen, headed towards the bedrooms. In no time Jeremy was asleep, though he knew tonight would be repeated, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next weekend, certainly on New Year’s Eve, and perhaps forever.

----------------------

12.30 pm, Monday, 1 July 1969. The quadrangle, St. Andrew’s High School, Timerong.

‘Attention, attention. All students are asked to move to the quadrangle. Please remain in your class groups, and follow your teacher’s instructions. Thank you.’

The voice came over the school PA, loud and crackly.

‘Okay boys, single file. Let’s go,’ said Mr. Dante, Jeremy’s French teacher. Though the middle of winter, and cloudy, the weather was mild, with the sun peeking out occasionally from behind a blanket of grey clouds.

St. Andrew’s Catholic all-boys high school catered to around 250 students. The teachers were a mix of priests and lay people – trained or just individuals with relevant experience, and even some ex-students. It was located in the middle of town, next door to the cathedral, with its towering spire of brown brick and stained glass. Down the road and around the corner was St. Catherine’s, where Adrian was following in the footsteps of his older sister and brother. It was the job of the St. Catherine altar boys, adorned in white dress with silk frills and embroided cross of Christ, to pull on the rope and ring the bell located inside the spire, every Sunday morning, five minutes before mass.

There were thirty boys in Jeremy’s class, sporting the grey and blue school uniform – long pants, white shirt, blue tie and grey jumper with blue and white trim. He was in 1st form, 1A, and there was a lot to learn, though he felt lucky, surrounded by friends and acquaintances, with about ten from Cathy's. They were all in this together now. 

By 12.45 the boys had taken their seats on the large cement area which formed a closed-in square surrounded by single storey classrooms. They were facing west, looking up towards a large black and white television screen, mounted on a stand about six feet tall and tilted slightly towards the ground so that those in front could see. Next to the stand was the school’s principal, Father Ted McGowan, microphone in hand. His voice, husky and clear, boomed out through the PA. Heads turn toward the grey speakers mounted on the corner of each classroom block.

‘This is an historic moment, boys, so please pay attention. As you can see from the picture we already have - which is not very clear I must admit - Apollo 11 has landed on the moon. It is called the LEM. Does anyone know what that stands for?’ Hands went up. Father Ted pointed to one of the prefects in the front row, John Friendly, son of the doctor who had helped deliver him.

‘Lunar excursion module, sir.’

‘Yes John. Well done.’

He looked down to the notes he held in his hand.

‘I have been told that in a couple of minutes Neil Armstrong, the American astronaut, will be stepping out onto the moon’s surface. We will now connect the TV to the PA so you can all hear the conversation between the astronauts and the NASA command centre. Please remain quiet. Thank you.’

With that, silence fell across the quadrangle. Almost immediately there was a buzz and a crackle in the air; intermittent pings were heard every five seconds. Quickly, the sound and intermittent silence connected with the hazy picture in front of the boys. All distractions disappeared as Jeremy’s eyes and ears strained to make out what was going on in front of him.

‘[Ping] Okay Neil, we can see you coming down the ladder now [crackle],’ came a voice from the Houston command centre.

The image was dark and grainy, with patches of white here and there, making it difficult to distinguish between the machine and the man. In the middle was a grey area which marked the leg of the LEM. On it was the vague outline of Armstrong – a white blob, with the lower half of his body and legs topped by a large helmet and a rectangular box on his back.

As the boys looked on, the figure made a slight jump off the leg and on to an invisible round metallic pod on the bottom of the LEM. The shadowy figure remained there silent and motionless for what seemed like an eternity, but was less than a minute.

‘Stepping off the LEM now,’ came the astronaut’s voice.

Jeremy looked as hard as he could at the screen, while around him there was silence, apart from the crackle and buzz of the PA. Thoughts filled his head of fave sci-fi television shows he had been watching religiously over the previous few years – Star Trek, Lost in Space, Fireball XL5, Thunderbirds, The Jetsons - all in black and white on a fuzzy television screen. It would often drop out when the wind blew the antenna outside, or cease when his drunken dad arrived home and, without a word, switched over mid-show to some interminable African plains documentary, with antelopes being chased down and torn apart by lions.

Today it was real, and the idea of the first men on the moon was difficult to comprehend. Sure, he had seen the movie of the same name, a quaint British production where a ball is shot from a giant canon and the three occupants land to meet a group of standing cockroach-like aliens. But this was no story or comic book, no Superman or Flash Gordon-like hero, no evil Ming waiting to tear it all down. Just a ghostly apparition of a man in a suit slowly climbing down a ladder onto grey ground.

Jeremy knew it was historic, so he watched it as closely as he could, to tell his family the details later that day. Dad was doing arvo at the brickworks, so mum would be taking care of dinner.

There were more crackles and pings, and some garbled words from Houston about camera settings. They saw the astronaut take another small jump backwards and down.

‘[Ping] That’s one small step for man [crackle], one giant leap for mankind [crackle]…’ Suddenly a shout went up amongst the boys and teachers, followed by cries of ‘Wow! Amazing! Far out! So cool! Did you see that? Awesome!’ 

Jeremy sat there silent, shaking his head in astonishment and looking around at those much more excited than he. It would take time to settle in, but he knew it was really happening. The world would now be a different place, supposedly. ‘Will all the wars stop? Can I fly to the moon one day?’ he thought to himself. In his head he saw the colour photograph from the cover of The Whole Earth Catalog of a blue, white and brown earth rising over the grey, pock-marked moon, taken by one of the previous Apollo mission astronauts. A copy hung on his bedroom wall, next to his guitar heroes – Hendrix, Clapton, Beck and Page. He was so used to staring into the night sky as the full moon rose over the horizon, that that image confounded him. And he had his Apollo 11 cloth patch sewn onto the left shoulder of his winter jacket, showing the world how nerdy he was. Today that murky television screen proved to him that that photo was real, the patch meant something, and the future would, or could, be different.

For fifteen minutes the students watched Armstrong walk on the moon and plant an American flag, which somewhat strangely seemed to flutter in the windless space.

‘Okay boys, back to class,’ came Father Ted’s voice over the PA as the clock ticked past 1.15 pm and thoughts of French verbs re-entered Jeremy’s head.

‘Il est terrific!’ he thought, too shy to shout it out.

‐‐-----------------

9pm, Friday, 7 November 1974. 

Dum …. Da do dum …. Da do dum ….. Da da do da …. Dum….. ‘What a fucking awesome song!’ Jeremy shouted to Ash as he turned up the record player on track one of the new Led Zeppelin album.

‘What’s it called?’ his friend asked.

Jeremy squinted, turning the album cover in his hand over and raising it towards a small light in the darkened room.

‘Whole Lotta Love, I think,’ came the response from beneath the din of the speakers.

The party was at Ash’s. There was usually one every weekend at somebody’s house, starting around 8 and ending by 11, or midnight at the latest. Jeremy and Ash were in their final year of high school – 6th form – and some of the 4th form girls from the nearby St. Celestines all-girls Catholic school were also there, along with their friends. There were about twenty-two all up, this early summer evening. Amidst the noise and darkness bodies could be seen dancing, chatting, sitting on lounges kissing and generally just having a good time. Jeremy had a bottle of cheap, $2 port wine; Ash’s preference was for a couple of cans of beer; and some of the girls had weird, colourful drinks such as pink Cherry Brandy and green Crème de Menthe, though Southern Comfort and coke was a favourite. Out on the balcony cigarettes and reefers were being smoked.

The final exams had come and gone and talk of ‘Where to next?’ began to enter conversations. For most of the boys it was university or tech, whilst a few were heading off into family businesses or farm work. The girls were mostly staying on at school, though some sought to leave, happy with the limited secretarial and shop or restaurant opportunities available to them, whilst others thought only of domestic duties – settling down, having a family and doing what their mothers and grandmothers had done before them, and encouraged them to keep doing. The so-called cultural and sexual revolutions of the sixties and early seventies had largely passed Timerong by. This night Jeremy and four of his friends were talking about heading off to Naragong the following day for a free concert at the markets, put on by the local radio station. Music was a big part of Jeremy’s life. The walls on his bedroom were plastered with cuttings from rock magazines such as Rolling Stone, Ram and Go-Set, and pictures of the Jimmies – Hendrix and Page, alongside Deep Purple, Thorpie and Slade. In the corner of his room was a cheap acoustic guitar and next to it a Japanese SG copy plus a small amp. He was taking lessons, but not getting far. It was hard to study sometimes, what with the music blaring and the guitars calling him to practice for the local garage band Raven, in which he played rhythm. Music was ever a distraction - listening, reading about it, or writing his own pathetic songs about love and life such as he knew it. Pathetic.

‘Play it again!’ somebody shouted, as Whole Lotta Love came to a crashing end. But Jeremy had other plans, as he picked the 12 inches of black plastic up off the record player, set it aside, and replaced it with another.

‘Hey, you might like this one,’ he said, as the riff from Smoke on the Water blasted through the speakers. A cheer went up from those on the lounge room floor who had been dancing to Led Zeppelin. Drunk, stoned, or just happy, they stood there shaking their heads and moving their bodies in rough sync with the music. Headbanging. Just then Jeremy felt a tap on the shoulder.

‘Hey Jez, come with me.’ It was Joanne, or Jo as she was generally known, one of the 4th formers. She was medium height, about 5’ 8” alongside Jeremy’s almost six feet, with straight hair, shortish, cut off at her neckline, and a round face with large hazel eyes. Her skin was brownish all year round, largely due to her athleticism – she was a runner and swimmer, spending a lot of time out of doors. Unlike many there that night, her exposed arms were muscley, her figure full. Jeremy was keen to follow.

Joanne held Jeremy’s hand and they both walked somewhat unsteadily outside, onto the balcony, where there were others chatting quietly, smoking and drinking, or just holding each other under the light of the full moon. She had a vodka and orange in her hand, whilst Jeremy had moved on to some creamy pink concoction which looked like a milk shake with ice cubes, but definitely was not.

‘What have you got planned for next year?’ she asked, as they leant against the balcony railing.

‘Uni. Engineering,’ he said. ‘Quite a few of us are heading that way. What about you?’

‘Yeah, I’m staying on. Do another two years with the nuns then I might go into teaching or get a job in the city. I want to travel before I settle down. There’s so much going on in the world, and lots to see, don’t you think?’

‘Sure. But I need a good job first before I can do any of that. Money, you know….’

‘Yeah, I suppose. I thought I might work my way through Europe. Waitressing, ski resorts, that sort of thing,’ she answered with a gleam in her eye and widening smile. ‘Mum and dad said they would buy me a ticket.’

‘Wow!’ said Jeremy.

‘Let’s go and sit down. Come on.’

Jo took Jeremy by the hand back into the house and sat him down on one of the lounges near the record player. The room was dark, the music was not so rocky anymore, but moody and mellow – somebody had put on Dark Side of the Moon, and with heads by now swirling from alcohol and pot, it all seemed to fit. Jeremy and Jo spent an hour sitting on the lounge kissing, chatting, gently exploring each other’s bodies in the darkness, and listening to the music. Then it was time to go.

It was a great night…. 

----------------------- 

Chapter 2

Easy Rider

9.30pm, Friday night, 11 November 1977. 

Jeremy and Ash push through the doors of the Pitch, Timerong’s sweatiest pub. It was THE place to be and the home of the local cricket comp. From the car park Jeremy heard the vibration coming through the ground from the loud music of a live band, or was it a disco beat – Donna Summer or Kiss? Perhaps Hot Chocolate's ‘Everyone’s a winner baby, that’s the truth….’ - a catchy riff he couldn’t get out of his head.

Smoke was wafting all around as the doors closed behind them. This was their place, their crowd. Everyone was out of it on beer, bourbon, cheap Port and lemonade, reefers, or a mix of all. They were drunk, or stoned, but not in any bad way – happy drunk / mellow - just the normal Friday / Saturday night way. It was a good crowd to hang with.

There were about thirty that night, and Jeremy knew nearly all of them: youth group members and buddies from school; work mates; groups of young women either friends or friends of friends. They were all in their late teens, early twenties, fresh into university, tech, or jobs, with some of the girls still at school, six formers. All having a good time. No settling down, not just yet anyway, though keen to pair off. Jack was one of them. His uncle was the owner of the pub and this night he was serving behind the bar in the small lounge area, separated from the rest of the elderly drinkers and poker machine addicts who frequented the pub. The young people hung out there on the weekends, not bothered by the old drunks, the families taking dinner at the bistro, the cricket club meat raffle winners being called out over the PA, or the constant jingle of the pokies as the handles were pulled and the coins dropped into the trays. Jeremy and his friends could play their music as loud as they wanted, or listen to a local band, while Jack would mix up cocktails for the ladies and pull schooners for the lads.

Alaria was there with her sister and best friend Barbie, known to one and all as Wire, in part for her sharp tongue and constant questioning: 'But, why?' Alaria was short in stature – about five foot two - with brown curly hear, a round, pixie-like face, and dressed head to toe in denim. She was 17, and came from Talmo, a small town up north, where her father had worked in the piggery. The family moved to Timerong a few years previous when the factory closed down, though it was hinted her sister getting pregnant at the age of 14 to a local boy was the reason for the move.

Alaria was smoking a reefer and passing it around. Jeremy has seen her at the pub before, at some youth group event, and noticed there was a maturity about her, a confidence belying her years. They had never spoken.

‘Don’t move. Stay right there!’ said Wire, as she ran up to Jeremy and put her arms around his to make sure he did not run off.

‘What for?’ he asked, wondering what was going on.

‘There’s someone here who likes you, and it’s time you had a girlfriend,’ she said.

‘Wait! I’m fine! I don’t need …’ he shouted to her as she ran off into the crowd. A couple of minutes later Wire returned with Alaria by her side. Just as quickly she was gone again.

‘Hello,’ she said, in a kind of offhand way.

‘Hello,’ Jeremy responded with a smile.

Alaria offered him a toke on her reefer. He took it, inhaling deeply, followed by a sip of port.

‘Do you wanna dance?’ she asked.

‘Sure.’

They danced and talked and danced and talked.

‘Wire said you liked me. Is that right?’, he asked.

‘No! Don’t be stupid,’ she responded. ‘No body believes anything Wire says. She just likes stirring people up. She told Jack that Tony wanted to kiss his girlfriend. They ended up in a blue out the back.’

‘Fuck! And she’s your friend?’ Jeremy asked.

‘Yeah. The best,’ said Alaria.

The conversation never stopped really, and two years later they were married. Was it love? Yes, definitely, Jeremy knew that much. Intense and binding, so he thought as it played out. They became one and it was all very easy – the wanting to be with each other; the going out; the sex; the moving in together and tying the knot. Young love blossoming with a light headedness that was both ecstasy and immaturity, at least on his part.

With the coupling came responsibility and the need to nurture. Twelve months into the relationship Jeremy dropped out of university, sick and tired of the study and poverty. He went back to working with his dad at the local flour mill. It was hot and dusty, but simple, the pay reasonable, and it allowed him to cast aside, for a brief period at least, the student life of study. He brought a car, then another – a V8, like all his workmates. He no longer went out three or four nights a week, to concerts and parties, as he had done prior to hooking up with Alaria. But there were still opportunities for that and, generally, life was good. 

They married in ‘79, moved into a small flat in east Timerong, and for a few years everything was sweet. He had a job, a partner, money and friends. It was a dream come true. But like all dreams, he eventually woke up, realizing that his new life was just a stage, before another. He had gone from the sublime to the ridiculous, from the university campus and studying, to the intellectual highlight of the day being the local rag, with its front-page stories of unmarried mums ‘bludging’ on the dole, workers on strike, governments in turmoil, pollies playing up, and all those other low brow, scare-mongering journalistic pursuits which aimed to keep the populace on edge. It sickened him to the core as he turned the pages and saw the lack of compassion and intellectual rigour he was being fed. A base, manipulative media, that was dragging him into a compassionless black hole. Yet his workmates did not seem to care, at least not on the surface. They did not talk about politics and the world beyond Timerong. It was mostly about cars and women and music and work. The drink and drugs helped keep them focussed on that. Beer and grass, with a bit of hash thrown in for good measure. 

As 1981 rolled around, Jeremy realised he could not stay in the factory. He had to escape. So, he headed back to university – part time initially, then a year or two full time. By the middle of the decade, he had graduated and found work in the metropolis to the east. He would then spend the rest of it commuting – a twelve-hour day travelling by train to and from Timerong and getting used to the frantic pace there, so unlike that of his home town. But, come the weekend, Jeremy’s zombified presence was barely felt. He would often take the two-hour trip with Alaria north to see her family in Talmo, at the head of the Dhurmaru river; stay the weekend and then back to the weekly grind.

By the end of the eighties, the pace of life was getting to be too much. As the country celebrated the Bicentennial of 1988 and the fact that - shock! horror! – it had an Indigenous history, he got sick and came home to recover for six months. Fortunately, as he recuperated, he was able to get work at his old alma mater, Timerong’s university, as a research assistant. He would spend the next seven or eight years doing just that, for all manner of academics and their research projects. His health was slow to recover, and his career momentum had stalled. No more work in the big city; no more twelve-hour commutes; no more regular visits to art galleries and bookshops stacked high with thousands of items, old and new; no more endless browsing. On the positive side, the slower pace of life in Timerong allowed for closer engagement with Alaria, as he was nursed back to health – well, 80% anyway – and once more engaged with his local community.

Whilst Jeremy was working in the factory, going to university, and then later pursuing a new career, Alaria had found a position at a local Mexican restaurant run by some friends who in their travels had spent some time in southern California. Frequenting some of the local eateries there, they returned home with a book of recipes and opened Nachoes shortly thereafter. It was in town, and she worked lunches or evenings, three or four times a week. The pay was good, the people friendly, and the grass easy to access. She stayed clear of the hash and coke, and the lifestyle suited her just fine – the right amount of liveliness and comradery, but nothing too dangerous. She remained there throughout the eighties, until, early in the nineties, the kids came along. And, of course, that changed everything. Three boys, born in ‘91, ‘93 and ‘95.

By 1997 Jeremy had secured a full-time job at the university, as Alaria focussed on raising the kids. He was feeling better, but also restless. His father had once said to him of Wingun, the small town to the south of Timerong and in the shadow of Yanagee: ‘I was born here, and I will die here.’ At the time Jeremy thought this a somewhat damning statement – to be constrained to a single locality for your whole life! Never to travel, to see the world, meet new people, or experience life to the fullest. But with time, and a deeper knowledge of ‘sense of place’ and the Aboriginal concept of attachment to Country – one of the positives to come out of the Bicentennial and his subsequent search for the true history of where he lived – Jeremy came to realise the profound truth of his father’s statement, and his own understanding and actual belief in it. Sure, he wanted to travel the world and do all those things that his father never did – either through desire or circumstance – but he realised he felt an attachment to the place where, indeed, he was born and raised – the same feeling as his father had expressed to him in that rather off-hand way. And the sense of attachment would be innate.

Such self-reflection, arising out of his illness and months laid up in bed barely able to even read that local newspaper he so despised, was a positive, as he lived through his thirties and first sensed an element of maturity in his largely self-centred life. At home, the kids were growing. By the end of the nineties, his father, whom he had hated whilst growing up due to what seemed like a wasted life of drinking, smoking, working, bowls and arguing with his mother, was no longer seen in that light. He had mellowed, and Jeremy looked on him anew. More forgiving, though never forgetting the trauma of those nights when he would be in his bed, head under the pillow trying to drown out the mindless, irrational kitchen arguments over cheese and tomato fry-ups or other such inanities.

The nineties were a period of raising the boys and surviving. He and Alaria rented various properties, putting the money they earned back into the family – food, rent, school fees and the like. By the end of the decade things had started to change for them, from the relative stability of the previous decades to an increasingly fractured reality. There was no real reason; it just crept up on them, or so it seemed to Jeremy. For the first time, they began to argue, to fight, to disagree. This horrified Jeremy as he had always tried to not repeat the mistakes of his parents. As a father he held and cuddled his kids; he played with them; took them for lots of long walks in prams and on his back. He tried to do all those things he remembered his father not doing. To argue with Alaria was a failure, and he did not like it.

Come the end of the nineties, Jeremy was no longer content with the way things were, and Alaria, seeing this, was in turn not happy with the way things were going. Their marriage was spiralling out of control, slowly but surely, and largely in silence as the new millennium approached. When they realised what was happening, they found that talking did not help. The arguments, or the discussions, never seemed to solve anything, as the two attempted to communicate, though always at cross purposes. He thought she did not listen to him and understand how he was feeling; she believed he did not seem to understand her and be there for her, emotionally. They were both right, and wrong. In trying to strengthen their bond, they failed miserably. The distancing continued and Jeremy slowly, without knowing it, went from caring to not. Alaria, in turn, became more insecure, hiding her pain behind the smoke of a bong and the cigarettes in between. Something ominous was on the horizon, and neither wanted to face it, or knew what to do about it. For one of them, the new millennium offered a world of opportunity; for the other, dread and a suicidal spectre.

‐---------------

7pm, 8 October 1999. East Timerong. 

The old 1920s, weatherboard house had two bedrooms, an old Kooka stove in the kitchen, front glassed-in verandah and a big backyard, half lawn, half bush, which was fun for the kids with the horse no longer grazing there. The rent was bearable, and the savings minimal. The kids were thriving, Jeremy still recovering, and Alaria working.

‘Can we talk?’ he said as he stood beside Alaria at the sink, tea towel in hand. The refuse from dinner was being dealt with while the kids frolicked in the bathroom.

‘Sure. What do you want to talk about? Us?’ said Alaria, fearful of what was to come. ‘We keep talking, but don’t seem to get anywhere.’

‘I know,’ said Jeremy. ‘But I want to try to work it out if we can. Perhaps we can’t….’

‘What does that mean?’ she responded, angry at his persistence in threatening all that they had.

Jeremy was afraid to speak the truth, to tell her what was really on his mind – that his feelings for her were changing, had changed, and he was not sure how he felt any more. It was almost as though everything that he had taken for granted since they first met back in ‘77 was now on the table and open for discussion. He knew it shouldn’t be like this, for it only offered conflict and pain. But he also knew that he could not keep ignoring it.

‘I don’t know what it means,’ he responded to diffuse the situation. Alaria turned away to mute.

With that, he returned to his drying up, whilst Alaria stood there at the sink, shook her head, and threw her hands back into the warm soapy water.

‘Dad! I want to hop out,’ came a shout from the bathroom. ‘The water’s getting cold.’

The conversation ended as Jeremy downed the tea towel and headed off to take care of what needed taking care of. The discussion would have to wait until another day.  

---------------------

Chapter 3

Millennium madness

Something happened to Jeremy as the clock ticked over on midnight, 31 December 1999. A new millennium dawned – it was the year 2000, and with a restless sleep came a realisation about his relationship with Alaria: ‘It’s over, and I don’t care,’ a voice inside his head announced, and then again, and again, like a scratched record. The lack of empathy, emotion, or concern over the implications of this moment was palpable. Cold logic ruled. As a result, this wasn’t some life changing, emotional, revelation. It was more like a clinical acknowledgement of fact concerning him and Alaria, his partner of nearly a quarter of a century. The thought was one to be analysed, and perhaps even researched, to see if there was a ‘cure,’ or some sort of clue as to what he should do next, and why he was the way he was at this particular point in time. The millennium had ended, and with it, his once deep feeling for, and attachment to, the mother of his three sons.

He needed to talk it through. With someone. But there were only two people – Alaria and Allan. His conversations with Alaria had proven fruitless, mainly because he was not prepared to lay his cards on the table; to tell her what he really felt; to possibly abandon her and the kids. So, he sat on it. For a year. But it was nearing the end of 2000 now and he felt as though he was running out of time. Keeping busy with work, the kids and community projects was not the answer. It was merely delaying the inevitable. He knew it, and Alaria knew it. Jeremy gave his friend Allan a call.

‘Hey mate. You home?’ Jeremy said down the line of the phone.

‘Sure. Come on over. I’ll put the cuppa on,’ replied Allan, in his usual nonchalant way.

Jeremy hopped on his motorbike, and within ten minutes was seated at one end of the big wooden table located in the rear section of Allan’s two-storey house. His own tribe were out – school and work – so there was no rush. They could talk in peace.

Jeremy sipped on the hot tea - milk and two sugars - and crunched on a biscuit.

‘I think it’s over.’

‘What’s over?’ responded Allan.

‘Me and Alaria.'

Allan sat there mute, ready to listen.

‘I know I felt love for her back at the beginning. I wrote it down at the time, in a small notebook. I just checked. I often wonder, you know, what is going on with my brain? Can I love? I heard someone mention this thing called aspergers syndrome the other day, where you are on the autistic spectrum and not able to externally present emotionally. That’s how I feel. It’s in my head, I think, but only to a degree. I know I should be feeling something, but I’m not. I got an old book on it, and those rusty pages offered little consolation, apart from suggesting that yes, despite the fucker, I can love. I’ve been in love before. But it seems to have disappeared. Perhaps this millennium madness is just my libido kicking in – a simple mid-life crisis, perhaps? What do you think?’ he asked as Allan sat quietly listening.

‘Perhaps… Who knows? Relationships change, ebb and flow, that sort of thing. We all go through that. Look at me – raising kids on my own. But I’ve come to terms with that. It’s OK,’ he said in reply.

‘Has this been the way with all the women I’ve known, I wonder? When I look back, I would have to say yes. And what about the future? I’m starting to wonder if I ever really feel love – that deep, selfless attachment to a person? Or does this damn spectrum thing rule it out? I don’t have any answers – well, none that are convincing anyway.’

‘Have you and Alaria talked it over? Have you told her how you feel, or rather, how you don’t feel?’ asked Allan.

‘Well, yes and no. We have talked - endlessly - over the last year or so, but we don’t seem to get anywhere. And no, I haven’t blurted out ‘I don’t love you anymore!’ I can’t do that – who can do that? The thing is I am not sure about it – about anything, really. And anyway, according to what I’ve read, and know, about aspergers syndrome, the prognosis is not good.’

‘Sure, I love things – I’m an inveterate collector and hoarder, of things - but that’s not the same as with people. I thought I was normal, for a long time, and that I did engage in romantic love all along – with those few before Alaria, and with her. Love like those Hollywood movies we devour, you know, and the few books of fiction I have ever bothered to read. Non-fiction is my thing, actually – another aspergers trait. I know about chocolate and flowers, listening and feeling. I do have feelings. I know about it all, intellectually at least. But what I think and feel and believe in my head, and what I do in my life, externally I mean, is apparently a quite different thing. It’s what I don’t think, or feel, that is the problem. Alaria has told me that I just stand there with a blank look on my face, totally oblivious to the pain she is going through. And she’s right, you know. I can see it, but I don’t feel it. I simply stand there and analyse it, which must be infuriating.’ 

‘How can I know what I don’t know, and do what I am not programmed to do? That’s the problem. And sure, I know that there is an absence of empathy here, in my head. The women I have encountered, they eventually realise that there is something different in their relationship with me; something is missing, even though they can’t put their finger on what’s wrong.’

‘Mmmm…. Perhaps you’re being too hard on yourself, mate?’ said Allan.

‘No. I think that, if I’m truthful, my testosterone level has guided my view of both partners and the world of women generally, and what I know from the pages of books. I think there is an inherent sexism within me, not a misogyny, per see, as I love women, and love being around them. But there is an ignorance, gained from the environment I grew up in, though I have railed somewhat against that since my teens, growing up in that Sixties era of peace, love, and women’s liberation. But that was not enough to overcome the chip in my head that is guiding my actions, if what I read about aspergers is true. Where empathy and understanding were lacking, libido filled the gap. Or, so I think now.’

‘What about your mum? What did you learn from her? You seemed to have been pretty close,’ said Allan.

‘My mother? Well, she was strong, steady, and apart from the constant battles with dad, a role model that I loved as best I could. The feelings for her, for my family – Tom and Mary, four years younger and the other likewise older - never really went very deep either. There was a distance between us – we never argued or anything, but we were never that close, either. And I couldn’t understand why, at least not until much later when I checked out the meaning of the word aspergers following a mention by a doctor. Upon reading a few articles and watching a couple of videos recently on the plight of those with it, the penny dropped: Yes, that was me! Rain man. An inner voice ruling my life; deleting thoughts that were overly emotional and leaving me with a lack of empathy and real feeling; no appreciation of the impact of my action upon others, including intimates, apart from open disasters which pull me into line.’ 

‘I fit the syndrome perfectly. I have a personality marked by perseverance and adherence to detail; I produce lists; I pursue the end game at all cost, with little thought for the journey; the often tragic plight of my partners, who happen to fall in love, naturally and normally, is one where they discover that that same thing is lacking in me, and I am not able to return that love in the normal way, in the way that is core to their very being,’ Jeremy said, with a deep sadness.

‘I’ve heard that some of the most brilliant people of history suffer a similar fate to you, and that there are ways to ameliorate its less desirable elements,’ responded Allan, trying to cheer up his friend.

‘Yeah. But the innate darkness of this incurable cranial abnormality, and the role of the DNA lottery, is there, and not so much for the person with the affliction, who is often oblivious to it, but for those around them, and around me; those who love me or sought to share in a love, and suffered the consequences of the reality, whether they knew about it or not. I know that now and realise that this lacking is part of what is happening to my relationship with Alaria. ‘

‘That midnight, end-of-millennium revelation I told you about, it led to another as a new day dawned. Namely, that I want to be in love. I want to find love again. I need to. And yes, I know that the love I have to offer in return is flawed, perhaps fatally so, but I am trying to be open, honest, and upfront about it – another aspergers symptom, but this time, I hope, put to good effect,’ said Jeremy, with a lightness upon his face as his thoughts became clearer.

‘What? You’re going to blurt it out? Tell any new ‘other’ about your problem, up front? That’s a bit risky, isn’t it? And shouldn’t you be telling Alaria first?’ queried Allan.

‘Yes. I know. But she knows most of this anyway, and it’s time to do something. It’s time to kick start the old heart; get off the treadmill of just doing, doing, doing, and instead look inside myself for once; try to pry open that emotional part of the psyche which has been buried for too long. I may be aspergic, but I can feel, I have emotions, I can love. I can do all of that in my head; now, I just need to do it outside of my head. But not with Alaria; not anymore. You see, I have this inner voice, which is emphatic, telling me loud and clear about where I am, who I am. And I don’t hear any voice arguing back in Alaria’s defence. It sounds awful, I know. But that’s just the way it is. There is no blame in that internal monologue. No blame on either side, when perhaps there should be. It’s just a state of ‘OK, this is where you are at, Jeremy. What is the next step?’ There’s no reason for it happening here and now, either, at least as far as I can tell. I think the subconscious follows its own path sometimes, and it seems like all of this is just being thrust upon me at that moment. Fate has intervened and I am a pawn. My moral compass has gone missing, if I ever really had one. I don’t, or can’t, wear any blame myself. Of course, events and my own actions brought me to this place, but they were neither premeditated nor serendipitous – they just were, and are, as if my whole life had been laid out before birth and I am just going along for the ride – 100 years and then death. There is no wisdom, no angel on my shoulder pulling me back. And then it happened - I felt as though I had fallen out of love with Alaria after all those years of satisfaction, of unquestioning dedication by both of us, even if in reality I was really only drifting along. Now I look inside myself and begin to see – yes, perhaps there was a path to the present. But that is as far as it goes. I did not stop and will not stop, I suspect. I cannot stop. I feel no remorse for what I am doing, or willing to do; and, above all, I do not understand how ‘the other’ feels, whether it be Alaria or another to come. I am in free fall, mate. Natural and blameless free fall. Pretty pathetic, eh?’

‘When did this all start? I know we have talked on and off about our relationships, but this sounds pretty serious,’ said Allan, now with a frown.

‘I have looked back for a point of commencement, where that aspergic piece of hard rock that is my emotional core developed a slight crack. The only event I can point to is when my Scottish brother-in-law Jim died suddenly a few years ago. He was only 38 and a much-loved teacher at the local high school. But one Sunday morning – and I think I already told you this - he was working on his car’s front steering and gave me a call around 9am.

‘Jez, could you drop by M & M Spares for me, an’ pick up a can of grease, lad?’ he said in his broad Glaswegian accent.

‘Sure thing, mate. I’ll be over there in half an hour,’ I remember saying.

‘But when I got there, the ambulance was already outside. Jim was dead. He had jacked the car up, pulled the front wheel off, felt something in his chest, walked inside and dropped dead on the kitchen floor. Suddenly, unexpectedly, tragically. Gone. His wife – my sister - and their three young children were all there, in the house. They saw it happen. Just the night before they were doing what they usually did – enjoying themselves at dinner with friends at the local RSL. There were no signs that Jim’s heart was clogged with cholesterol and would stop the next morning around 9.10am.’

‘At the funeral, and for the first time, I cried in public, like I always felt a man shouldn’t. But it was a liberating experience. Cathartic. It set free an upwelling of emotion I had never really been aware of, or experienced, outside of childhood. And here I am, as 2000 lays before me, all of this internal angst coming to the surface like a fucking volcano, and so I talk about actionable intent. I suppose, like a lot of marriage break downs – which this is – Alaria will be the last to know. I can’t tell her everything, because I am not sure what is going on in my head, and what is going to happen. And I am not that brave, or cruel,’ said Jeremy.

‘But you have to mate,’ said Allan.

‘I have hinted at it, in a roundabout way. And yes, I have not said more that I should have said. I realise now that, after twenty-three years of never thinking of ‘another,’ that that thought is on my mind. I don’t have anyone particular lined up, but I do feel open to the experience. And I know there’s no going back to where it started. I have given up on us.’

‘What about the boys?’ asked Allan.

‘Yeah, what about the boys… That’s the hard one. The thought of abandoning them is the pits. I can’t handle that at all, and that is why I am just not sure about anything. I don’t want to lose them. I want to be there for them, every day and in every way. The way my own dad was not.’

Jeremy looked down at his watch, as he sipped the last of his tea. He realised that time had flown, he was getting too emotional, and it was time to go.

‘Anyway, thanks for listening mate. I have to sort it all out. I know that.’ With that, Jeremy said farewell, donned his jacket and helmet, jumped on his motorbike, and headed off home. As he rode, he could not see any clear answers, despite the length of the discussion with Allan. ‘Is this what therapy is like?’ he thought. All talk, and no answers. Just discovery and stories. 

-------------------

Chapter 4

White out 

Jeremy had never encountered anyone like her before. He was hooked from that first look directed his way across the crowded hall. Natasha was a stunner, with long, flowing silky white hair, mascara rimmed eyes, dark red painted lips, and a body seen only in silhouette – no flesh, all white covering, though the curves were present and the mannerisms – the walk – distracting, for him at least. He suspected she was of Eastern European heritage – the name perhaps gave it away, though he never thought to ask. And that look - exotic, erotic, and mysterious. She was an artist, dealer in antiquities, and vamp in the true sense of that misunderstood term from the 1920s: a feeder on the desires of men – vampirish; flirtatious, but ultimately unobtainable. When he first saw her late in 2000, she presented as the eternal bride. Behind the white, was a dangerous, intoxicating demeanour. The revelation of dark secrets was intimated through a knowing smile. But with that persona came a fragility that was just as enticing; there was a hidden backstory there waiting to be told. The historian in him wanted to find out, dig deeper.

A public meeting had been called in the last week of November, just as the schools were getting ready to close. The locals were angry. A young girl had died crossing at a crossing, struck down by a neighbour who should have known better. Something needed to be done, but it couldn’t be undone. The death of one so young, and the sheer horror of losing a child and seeing the life blood drained from the faces of disbelieving parents, affected everyone at the meeting that night, including Jeremy. He was acutely aware of the tragedy of death. He felt it with his brother-in-law Jack, and a few months earlier when another young girl fell from her horse and died whilst in the charge of grandparents. It was no-one’s fault, just an accident. Another awful accident. She went to the school his sons attended, and he knew the parents. Jeremy had stood by the grave site as her body was lowered into the ground, with Nelly Furtado’s plaintive I’m like a bird filling the air. He cried and walked away from that ceremony of dispatch, realising how precious life was; his need to keep his own children safe and alive until they could go out into the world and make their own way. Living in the moment would be his new mantra, for tomorrow it all could came to a crashing end. Natasha could perhaps play a part in that journey of revelation and discovery, as he left Alaria behind.

When 2001 came around he saw her again, but this time at the picket. It had been set up by the road leading to the summit of Moogaru. A developer wanted to build houses on the slopes of the mountain, and the community was aghast. The proposal would forever leave a blot on the landscape. And then there was the fact that, to the local Aboriginal people, Moogaru was sacred – every last bit of it – and no development was going to be allowed. An embassy was set up near the picket and slightly to the west, further up the mountain road. The mountain was the site of ceremonies going back thousands of years, and of storytelling. The fight was now on, and with the setting up of the embassy at the end of 2000, and the picket in February 2001, the community was ready to stand their ground.

Natasha was one of the picket founders. She had helped put together its ram-shackled identity, and told everybody who would listen that she was proud to be defending her country. Jeremy, from the privacy of his bedroom computer terminal, had been working on the heritage aspects of the proposed development since the early nineties, and therefore welcomed the creation of both embassy and picket. So, it was during the first few months of 2001 that he began to encounter her on a more regular basis. They talked; they got on well. She smiled at him, he smiled at her. A good sign. They joined up at meetings, public rallies, sat together when they could, though always discreetly. And with others they shared the picket’s warming campfire as winter approached and the moon shone clearer and brighter, its creamy hue reflecting upon the blackness of the Dhurmaru river and its billabongs lying at the base of Moogaru’s western flank.

Natasha offered practical advice and an insight into community feeling; Jeremy listened, for there was much to learn in the fight to save Moogaru. However, there was more than that, for Natasha offered an ‘in’ to a darker side of life he had never known, and one which he was ready and willing to dip his toes into, at least as much as the coward within him would allow. The conversations they shared, the activities they engaged in – together or with a group – also inspired him to put it down on paper, record the highs and the lows, and generally work out what the hell he was doing with his life. ‘Why not?’ he thought. A poem, prose, words that expressed how he was feeling, full of lust and liberation, excitement, engagement, and enchantment. What was the harm in that? Especially when the words came easy. So, he wrote, and wrote….

By May Jeremy felt he could share some of those thoughts with her, and she with him. He heard of her troubles with her partner Tim; references to the other woman he was fucking in Naragong, where he worked late shifts and often stayed over; her fear of separation, of loss of all she and he had worked hard for. But when he told her how he felt, of his new millennium disconnect from Alaria, she brushed him aside. ‘It’s not on,’ she said, ‘You and me – no way!’ 

So he withdrew, tail between his legs. But the writing continued apace, totally anonymous, the words pouring out of him. Angst in ink. No one would see them though. They were private, in diaries and notebooks, on scraps of paper here and there, written down at all hours, day or night. Written to be read after he died, or as memory boosters. Not for Natasha, not for Alaria, not for anyone. And if somebody entered his life, perhaps to be shared – not all, but some – his with her, and hers with his.

2001 rolled on. The picket grew strong, the meetings more frequent, the media circus more interested, and the social connections more varied. Jeremy found there was less time for home, Alaria, and the kids. Meanwhile, under cover of darkness and in his head the adventure continued, the truth unknown by her, but increasingly suspected.

‘What the fuck have you been doing?’ she said as he walked through the door one Thursday night in June, around 11pm, his eyes glazed from the wine and grass, the smell of the picket fire strong with him. Alaria was standing in the kitchen, having just pulled a bong.

‘I was at the picket meeting,’ Jeremy replied calmly.

‘Why the guitar?’ she asked, pointing to the old acoustic in his hand.

‘Well, after the meeting, we just sit around strumming by the fire and talking about the campaign. You know that.’

‘You’re carrying on like a young, unmarried man. Who was there?’

‘The usual gang. Why don’t you come down to the bbq on Sunday afternoon? The kids enjoy it.’

‘No. I don’t want to. That’s your thing. It’s not mine.’

With that the conversation ended. Alaria stashed her stash and headed off to bed. Jeremy had a shower then sat down at the computer to write some notes and work on his latest court submission, before calling it a night. As he lay down next to Alaria, she was sound asleep, and in a few minutes so was he. There was nothing there. The gap was now a chasm.

Natasha was home alone. It was Saturday evening, 12 May, around 8pm. Winter had arrived, cold and wet. Jeremy rang an hour earlier and said he would drop over on his way out and then to the picket. He knocked on the door and was let in. Natasha stumbled slightly as she guided him through the house, moving slowly toward a large wooden table in the kitchen where a half empty bottle of vodka was sitting on one corner next to a half full glass. She picked it up, drank it in a single motion, then turned towards him.

‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked, with a slight slur.

‘Sure,’ responded Jeremy. ‘Do you have a bit of orange to go with that?’

Jeremy didn’t dream; not often anyway, and not that he could remember. But sitting there alone with Natasha his mind wondered to the possibilities. That dream thing, only in the present; a mindful realisation of where he was in time and place. He saw an innate sensuality in her. The words – their conversation – skirted around the edges of that, played with it, though both aware of the subtext.

Natasha retrieved another glass from the cupboard, gingerly poured the two drinks, added some orange, and sat down at the table, opposite Jeremy. He thought she looked sad and lonely, and the vodka bottle didn’t detract from that impression. Her son was with a friend, and she had told Jeremy earlier when he rang that Tim would not be home that night.

‘Another late night at work, and then off to the pub with his workmates,’ she said, with an off-hand slur. ‘His shares a small apartment with one of them, though often ends up with the other there, or at her place. I know about her, and he knows that I know. But we don’t give a shit. Life goes on, and we’re there for the long haul.’

‘Don’t you get lonely”’ asked Jeremy.

‘Sure. But my little bottle here helps with that,’ she replied, toasting him.

‘I’m off to the Wombat. Do you wanna come?’ he asked. ‘The guys from the embassy are playing. I thought I might head up to the picket after that. Perhaps we could go there first? I don’t know. What do you think?’

‘OK. Whatever. Let’s go. Now. Anywhere. I don’t care’ she said, downing the last of her vodka.

‘What about the bottle - you had enough?’ asked Jeremy.

‘Never enough!’ she responded with that wicked smile which hid so much.

Natasha grabbed the bottle, and stashed it in her shoulder bag. They then headed out the front door, hopped into Jeremy’s car and drove to the other end of town, in the direction of the embassy and picket. The Wombat was on the flat below Moogaru, perhaps ten minutes away and in a section of town surrounded by shops, factories and the bush. When they arrived, the red neon sign above the hotel stood out against the blackness of the sky – the word Wombat flashed, alongside an outline of that fat Ozzie animal.

‘Hey, it sounds like the place is rockin’ out! I didn’t know they did reggae,’ said Jeremy has he parked his car near the back of the hotel. As he got out, he walked to the other side of the car and helped guide Natasha to the entrance, grabbing her lightly around the waist whenever she slipped on the damp earth in the darkness.

‘Yeah, I heard then practicing last week,’ said Natasha. ‘They’ve got Annabel from the uni singing. They want to record some of their own songs. I hope it works out.’

Inside, people were dancing and mingling about. Natasha and Jeremy looked around and headed off in separate directions, towards friends and allies. The politics of people, personalities and relationships was exposed in all its glory amidst the mass of drinking, dancing, and mobile bodies that night.

An hour passed quickly for Jeremy, as he engaged in idle chat, blank staring at the band as the music took over, an occasional walk to the bar to get a light beer, or a trip to the loo to dispense with the latter. Around midnight, and whilst standing at the bar, Natasha came up to him from behind, moved in close and whispered in his ear: ‘What are you doing here?’

She knew the answer, of course, but was drunk enough to ask anyway.

‘Having a good time, a bit of a chat, listening to some music, that’s all’ Jeremy responded rather awkwardly. 

‘Why are you here?’ he hit back.

No answer was forthcoming, just the happy/sad grin from Natasha. Jeremy immediately regretted not telling her the truth, that he was there to be with her.

She walked back to the table and sat down next to a Māori woman, known simply as Mari. Jeremy found a chair and slid up beside them.

The two women began a loud conversation concerning the skinny little man sitting at the far end of the table.

‘Hey Nat,’ said Mari, pointing his way. ‘That little runt just asked me to go home with him and have sex? What d ’ya reckon?’

‘What the fuck! He’s too skinny. You’ll squash him like a nat!’ shouted Natasha, making sure he heard and laughing with her friend.

But Mari was having none of that. She finished her drink, indicated to the little man that he should head towards the door, got up, gave Nat a big kiss on the lips, and danced her way out of the Wombat. Natasha, having lost her drinking companion, shouted to Jeremy above the musical crescendo.

‘Hey Jez, let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough.’

She gathered up her should bag with the almost empty vodka bottle, sculled the last dregs of a scotch and coke Mari had brought for her, grabbed Jeremy’s hand, and led him towards the door. Within a minute or two they were outside in the stillness of the night, with only the thumping bass of the band resonating around them, and the tck tck of the crickets in the cool night air.

‘Wow! Look at the stars and the moon tonight,’ she said, her head titled skyward, eyes sparkling from the alcohol and reflection of the car park lights. Just then Natasha’s phone buzzed with an sms. She flipped it open and read it.

‘It’s Tim. He’s come home. Brought some workmates with him. They’re having a party.’

‘OK. Let’s go. I’ll drop you off,’ replied Jeremy.

‘No, you won’t! You’ll come in with me,’ she said with a determined look and a wistful smile. They hopped into his car and headed off back to Natasha’s. She lived in a house in an old estate on the north-western part of town, close to Mount Me eru. It was smaller than Moogaru and covered in dense bush. Popular with bush walkers, it skirted the Dhurmaru and marked the beginning of an extensive nature reserve and water catchment north of town. Natasha’s house was near the top of a slightly hilly and wooded area, accessed by one of those snake-like roads that takes the long way up an incline rather than straight. As they got nearer, they passed by a large nature reserve.

‘Pull over here,’ Natasha said, grabbing Jeremy’s arm for in instant in a tight grip. ‘I want to talk.’ He maneuvered the car just off the road and into a small, tarred park area, with nearby seats, bbq and playground. The eeriness of the place was enhanced by the light of the full moon, the tall trees all around, and the freshness of the night air. There was no rustling of trees, just silent loss of coats of green and grey, yellow, and orange red marking the barrenness of winter.

‘Hey,’ says Natasha, slipping off her seat belt and turning towards Jeremy. ‘We’re a weird pair, aren’t we, you and me? So different, black and white, hot and cold, worldly and naive. Yet here we are. I’m thinking about what it is, and what it is not. About how awful I have treated you…’

‘What?’ says Jeremy with some surprise.

Natasha took hold of Jeremy’s hand.

‘Yep, that’s right. I’m to blame for the whole it’s not on thing,’ she said. ‘And don’t think I don’t want it. I do. But I can’t.’

‘No, it’s not your fault,’ he said. ‘Not at all. We met, we connected, we are working together, and it’s really nice. We talk, we share, all of that. And if that’s the full extent of it, then so be it. That’s the way things are. Like I said before – I’m enchanted by you, for sure, but that’s my issue, not yours. I’ve looked on as you talked and schemed, and planned and laughed, and joked and cursed and smoked and strutted about. I wondered at it all. I enjoyed it all. And you seem to like me around, or at least put up with me. That smile says something.’

‘You’re not really serious,’ she said.

Jeremy looked at her. He saw for a first time a radiant, innocent face, with Natasha’s big eyes staring back at him.

‘I am quite serious.’ With that, he moved in closer, brushed her hair back off her shoulders, gently raised his hands to her face, and kissed her on the lips. Not once, but twice, and quickly.

Natasha squeezed him tight, then pulled away and shook her head.

‘No. We can’t do that,’ she said as they sat back in their seats, looking out towards the moon and stars. ‘I’m sorry for letting this happen. I’m a dreamer; I fall in love at the drop of a hat. I do try to never get too close to cause consequences, but I fuck that up sometimes.’ She suddenly looked panicked. ‘I am afraid, you know? I can’t lose what I’ve got. I don’t want to lose our friendship either. We can’t go there. It has to stay the way it is. I’ve lost too many friends this way. All they want to do is fuck me, and me them. But I don’t want that. I don’t want to lose us.’

‘Hey. I don’t want that either,’ said Jeremy, clasping her hands in his. ‘You’re an inspiration. I need your help. I need you.’

Natasha smiled. She moved in and kissed him with passion. He tasted the vodka in her mouth and smelt the tobacco on her breath, a strange mix which neither offended nor engaged. As they separated and sat back in their seats, she retrieved a reefer and lighter from her purse and lit it up. As she inhaled, it’s sweet smell filled the car.

‘The thing I like about you is that you have no fear,’ she said. ‘You just go ahead and do things. You say you’re a coward, but I don’t believe that. Sure, you’ve got an aloofness, a disconnectedness. And you are quite naïve, surprisingly so! But I suspect that is all a way of protecting yourself. Am I right?’

As she breathed out, she cheekily blew some smoke his way, before passing it on. He took it and took a couple of puffs, trying not to give away the fact that he rarely smoked. He wasn’t averse to it in any way; he just limited his smoking and drinking to parties and occasions such as this, where he felt relaxed, or a need to relax.

‘Yeah. I think you’re right, you know. Though I can’t necessarily see that in myself – not naturally anyway,’ he said, trying to take it all in.

‘We’d better go ….’ says Natasha.

Back at Natasha’s house the party was in full swing. Tim’s friends were gathered in the lounge room, and the opened slabs of beer on the kitchen table were fuelling animated conversations around politics and world affairs, such as a US spy plane downed in China, a flare up in the Middle East as the Israeli and Palestinian conflict continued anew, and the increasing belligerence towards asylum seekers by the Howard / Ruddock / Abbott Coalition government closer to home. Jeremy was interested in joining in, but found it difficult to hear beneath the din of Van Morrison’s Moondance on the record player. A few people were dancing and swaying in the darkness, beneath a blue light. 

As she entered the room, Natasha’s white top and pants fluoresced with a purple hue, exposing bra and panties underneath. Out on the balcony Nick was strumming his guitar, whilst one of the women from the picket protest looked on with glazed eyes, swaying to his rhythm. Apart from her name – Frederique - no one really knew who she was, having just appeared out of nowhere one afternoon, with a rucksack and swag. A veteran of the Tasmanian native forest anti-logging campaigns, her tanned skin, dangling dreadlocks, broad toothy smile and mix of paisley and tie-dyed attire helped set the tone for the multicultural, non-ageist and broad socioeconomic community developing around the Moogaru protest. ‘Hey luv, where have you been?’ asked Tim as Natasha bounded through the door and made a b-line towards him. ‘Having a good time with my mate Jezza here,’ she replied, pointing over to Jeremy as he stood in the corner trying not to be seen. ‘You two having an affair or something?’ he blurted out so the whole room could hear, followed by a deep, belly laugh. ‘No way honey. You know you’re my man,’ she shouted, so everyone could hear.

Tim was seated on a large lounge chair, with a can of beer in one hand and a smoke hanging off his lip. He was a big man, about the same age as Natasha, late 30s, and with a round, full face and somewhat overweight physique. His hair was half there and his voice deep, resonant.

Natasha jumped on Tim, took the cigarette from his mouth, and gave him an aggressive kiss on the lips. The public show of affection did not surprise Jeremy, following on his previous conversations with Natasha. He turned away and walked over to talk to Tully, one of the members of the embassy. He was standing in a corner, with a didgeridoo by his side and a spear in his hand. He was standing on one leg, with the other bent up and resting halfway up the other to form a triangle. Jeremy had seen this stance in old engravings, watercolour drawings and photographs of Aboriginal people within some of the historic texts he had been reading about the history of first contact.

‘Hey man. This is my pelt totem,’ Tully said, holding up a possum skin as Jeremy approached. ‘It was stolen, taken from me, but I got it back today. I’ve been lost without it. It’s my connection with Tullimbah, the warrior. He’s my spirit master. Died long ago. He talks to me, and I listen bro’. I listen.’

Tully’s eyes were an intense steel blue, glazed over like pearls. He manner was somewhat hyped, as though on uppers or some strong medication.

‘And you Jez – you’ve been on walkabout these last two months, haven’t you? I know. I see,’ he said, pointing to his eyes and shaking his head up and down.

‘Black man goes for four months. Comes back and his missus is gone. Smells around and can smell another man. Your missus – I could take her away while you’re on walkabout, you know.’

truth of it all, though, hit home as he looked over at Natasha and Tim making out on the couch like a young married couple. Tully handed Jeremy a reefer. He inhaled deeply, then took a swig of the glass of wine he was handed as he walked in the door.

‘I’ll tell you a story about Tullimbah bro.’ One-night Tullimbah was asleep, by a camp fire, at the back of Moogaru, and a man from the mountain tribe – a Narunung called Jibaru - tried to sneak up on him and kill him with his lil-lil. It was a club, made of wood, with a sharp axe head at one end and a long handle. Good for killing. I’m going to make one for myself. Anyway, Jibaru wanted to get rid of Tullimbah and take away his woman Nubba. But Tullimbah heard him coming, feigned sleep, and knocked him down just as he went to strike. He then tortured and beat Jibaru, over the following week before severing his head with the lil-lil and dumping his body in the Dhurmaru river, just near the Moogaru lagoons. That’s our way, bro’. Justice,’ said Tully, with a stern look in his eyes which sent a shiver down Jeremy’s spine.

‘See this spear. I carved it, out of a reed from that billabong. You can see it from the embassy. It’s ten feet tall. If I throw it, I can kill a man. Payback. Part of our lore. That’s my job. I’m a lore man.’

‘Thanks Tully. Amazing story.’

‘It ain’t no story. It’s the truth bro’. That’s what happens when you try to take a woman away. No good come of it.’

‘OK. I gotta go now. Take care.’

Jeremy looked around and saw Natasha dancing to Van the Man, in her very own moon dance, arms in the air, her body swaying with the infectious rhythm. She was by herself, in another world, the vodka and pot doing their job. Jeremy looked around. Tim was now off with a group chatting. He walked over to her.

‘I’m going now. Tully just threatened to spear me, I think,’ he tells Natasha, half in jest. ‘Apparently that’s what happens if you mess with another man’s woman,’ he told her, half-joking, half-serious.

‘Hang on, I’ll walk you out,’ she answered.

Outside the house it was coolish, though a somewhat magical night due to the clarity of the air and the brightness of the moonlight. As they reach Jeremy’s car, Natasha lent up against it to steady herself, tipsy from the long night of drinking. She stared at Jeremy.

‘I’m going to be frank with you. It’s not that I’m not attracted; it’s just that it cannot be. You can see that, can’t you?

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I dream about you, you know…. I dream about you naked.’

With that, she pulled him close, gave him a tight hug, quick kiss on the cheek like mother with child, and headed off back inside to the party. Jeremy stood there for a moment, taking in what had just happened, with Natasha, with Tully, with Tim and all the rest. The smoke and the wine had left him light-headed, floating, and unable to process much of it. He jumped in the car and headed off into the night. A shower and sleep were the only things now on his mind. 

[To be continued]

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Last updated: 5 October 2023