Bitin' Back

Vivienne Cleven
was born in 1968 in Surat and grew up in western Queensland, homeland of her Aboriginal heritage. She left school at thirteen-years-of-age to work with her father as a jillaroo: building fences, mustering cattle, and working at various jobs on stations throughout Queensland and New South Wales.

In 2000, with the manuscript
Bitin' Back,
Vivienne Cleven entered and won the David Unaipon Award, a national, annual competition established in 1988 for Indigenous authors who have not yet published a book. In demand at literary events and workshops, she has published articles and fiction in anthologies, magazines and journals; and broadcast on radio. She lives with her two children in regional Queensland, and is currently completing a second novel entitled
Her Sister's Eye.

ONE

The boy is curled up in his bed like a skinny black question mark. Ain't like he got a lot of time to be layin bout. A woman gotta keep him on his toes. That's me job; to keep the boy goin. Hard but, bein a single mother n all. Be all right if the boy had a father. Arhhh, a woman thinks a lot a shit, eh? A woman's thoughts get mighty womba sometimes!

I pinch me nose closed; the room stink like it been locked up for years. I shake Nevil awake. ‘Nev. Nevil, love. Come on wake up. Ya got a interview today, down at the dole office.'

‘Wha ... What?' He rolls over, the sheet twisted round his sweat-soaked body. He rubs his eyes and looks up at me with sleepy confusion.

‘The dole office. Interview. Ya know, today. In bout thirty minutes. Come on, no use layin there like a leech.'

‘Who, what?' He struggles up on his bony elbows, givin me a sour gape of bewilderment.
The boy look myall this mornin.

‘On ya bloody feet. Don't want none a ya tomfoolery today.' I look at the beer bottles, the bong and all them books
scattered on the floor. I eyeball the titles—
Better Sex, How to Channel. Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, Ernest Hemingway. Yep, was always a mad one for readin, our Nev.

I turn round. He's still in bed, his arms folded behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. ‘Jesus Christ! Get outta friggin bed will ya! A woman got better things to do than piss bout here all day whit you! Come on, Nevie, love.' I soften me voice to a low crawly tone. ‘Mum's got bingo. Might hit the jackpot, eh?'

‘Who's Nevil?' he ask, starin down at his hairy, mole-flecked arms.

‘Wha...? What's wrong whit ya? Ya sick?' I peer at his face.

‘I'm not sick. And don't call me Nevil!' He nods his head and his bottom lip drops over, like he's gonna bawlbaby.

‘Yeah, if you're not Nevil then call me a white woman!' I sit on the edge of his bed, laughter bubblin in the back of me throat.
Was always a joker, our Nev.

‘I'm not Nevil, whoever that is!' He busts his gut in sudden anger, his hands curled into fists.

‘Talk shit,' I say, waitin for the punchline.

‘How dare you talk to me like that!' His voice sounds like he really true means it as he glares sharp eye at me.

‘I'll speak to ya any friggin way I wanna! Now get outta bed before I kick that black arse of yours!' I stand up, me hands on me hips, foot tappin the floorboards.
Don't push me, Sonny Boy.

He pulls the sheet up to his face, his brown eyes peepin out from the cover. ‘Call me Jean,' he whispers.

‘Jean! Jean!' The laughter jump out, I double over holdin onto me gut, heehawin and gaspin for breath. ‘Yeah, good one Nev, bloody funny.' I take control of meself when I suddenly realise how still and quiet he is.
Not like Nevie.

‘Call me Jean—Jean Rhys, that's my real name', he says, droppin the sheet, showin his thick black chest hair.

‘What the fuck...! Are you on drugs, son? Hard shit, eh?' I peer at his face, waitin for a confession.
The boy flyin high or what?

‘Nope. Just call me Jean.'

‘Jean. Right, I get the joke, ha, ha, funny,' I say, takin a closer look at him but seeing nothin outta the ordinary.

‘It's not funny! I can't see any humour in my name. How would you like me to make fun of you, huh?'

I walk over to the bed. ‘Somethin real wrong whit ya, Nev?' I drop me eyeballs down at him.
Too much smokin pot n pissin up all that grog is what does it. How the friggin hell did he come up with a cockadadoodle name like Jean Reece, for God's sake! A woman's name!

‘Just remember I'm Jean Rhys, the famous writer,' he says, flashin his chompers as he picks at his nails. As though to say: ‘Are you madfucked, Ma? Can't ya see who I am?'

‘A writer! A woman writer! Jesus Christ Almighty! Next you be tellin me yer white!' Me hand flies to me chest, as though to stop me thumpin heart.
Weedeatin, that's what's wrong whit him. Yarndi messin whit his scone.

‘Yep, sure am,' he answers, throwin his legs over the side of the bed.

‘Nevil, stop this rot! You startin to worry poor ol mum here, son. Anythin you wanna talk bout? Girlfriends, football, yarndi?'
Sometime talkin help clean out the shit.

‘Nope. Sure appreciate if you'd call me by my right name though,' he says, one hand scratchin his arse, the other rubbin his stubbly chin.

‘Okay, Nevil. Nevil Arthur Dooley, male, twenty-one years old, black fella from the bush.' I give the boy a smooth n oily smile.
Gotcha! Take that one!

‘Damn you! It's Jean, Jean Reece! J-E-A-N! RHY-S! Get it!' he yells. Spit flies across the room and lands on me face.

‘Oh righto, Jean. Is it miss or missus?' I decide to go along with him, to play out this little joke.
Jean Rhys, eh. Biggest load a goona a woman doned ever heard.

‘Miss'll
do fine, thank you, Mum.' He smiles, then drops his head n looks down at the rubbish-strewn floor.

‘Well, Miss Jean Rhys, what may I ask have you got in those undies there, huh?' I throw him a spinner.
Take the bait, boy. Our Nev n his jokes. A regular commeediann.

‘That's crass. What do you think's in there?' He spins round, grabs the bath towel off the window ledge and winds it round his skinny hips.

‘Well ... I really don't know any more.'

‘Hmmpph, stupid question, Mother. Now where are my clothes?' he asks in a pissy sorta way, runnin his tongue cross his thick-set lips as he catches a glance a hisself in the mirror.

‘In the wash, Nevil—I mean Jean.' I walk over and stand behind him as he stares at hisself.

‘Have you ever seen such bewdiful hair, huh?' he says, his fingers tryin to comb through the baby arse fluff on top of his scone.

‘Yeah,' I whisper, by this time knowin somethin is very wrong whit me only kid.

I catch his eyes and look into them, wonderin what mischief lays there. I see nothin. His eyes hold no deep secrets. I reach out and touch his shoulder. ‘Tell Mum, Nevil, tell Mum.' I will him to answer me, to tell me somethin has happened, someone has paid him to pull this stuntin on me.
Ain't like Nev to be aresin bout like this. Talkin mad, sorta like he got that possessin stuff. A manwomanmanwoman. Like the boy mixin his real self up whit another person.

‘I need a frock. A nice one,' he says, pullin faces at hisself.

‘A frock! Sweet Jesus, Nev, come on, love!' I take a wonky step back from him, feelin like as though he's done punched me in the gut.
The boy is deadly serious.

‘You heard me. I can't very well get about in those things there, can I?' He points to a pile of dirty jeans.

‘You have before.' I try to smooth him over, ‘I can get a fresh pair off the line if ya want.' I feel somethin grip me like death as I try to imagine me big-muscled, tall hairy son walkin round the town in a dress.

The shock brings vomit up to sit at the back of me throat. I realise with a sick despair that he means to wear a dress right or wrong.
He won't back out even for me. He's mad in the head. He's gone crazy n gay. A woman can't take it.

Now let me see, yeah, I member that ol girl long time past, this sorta thing happened to her. It make a woman wonder: ya got black fellas sayin they white. Ya got white fellas sayin they black. I just dunno what's racin round in they heads. Cos, when ya black, well, things get a bit tricky like. See now, if ya got a white fella then paint him up black n let the man loose on the world I reckon he won't last long. Yep, be fucked from go. But when ya got a black fella sayin he's a woman—a white woman at that! Well, the ol dice just rolls n another direction. Ain't no one gonna let the man ... boy, get away whit that! This here is dangerous business.

‘Well ... I spose ... you'll ... fit into a dress a mine. Tell me, what's Gracie gonna think, eh?' I shake me head at him, the idea comin to me as I speak. ‘She won't like it, Gracie girl, havin a boyfriend walkin bout in women's clothes. She won't put up whit it. She'll leave fer sure!' I let it all out, jabbin the air whit me finger.

‘Well, too bad ain't it. Anyway, who's Gracie?' Nev turns round to face me.

‘Don't talk stupid. Gracie's your girlfriend. Enough of this
for once and all. I gotta go to bingo, the others'll be waitin for me. So get dressed; hurry up.'

He walks toward the bathroom, heavin his shoulders up and down as he sighs and mumbles to himself. There's somethin wrong whit the way he walks, steppin ballerina like as he goes down the hallway. Suddenly I wonder if our Nev is one a those.

One of em homos. Well, they don't call em that any more. Gay, that's the word people use. Jesus Christ! Can ya wake up gay? Must do, Nevil did. But then again some people can con theyselves that they anythin. Thinkin of that ol girl, what was her name? It were Phyllis, Phyllis Swan. If a woman's recollection is right, she were parted from her own mob by em government wankers; they reckon she too white for the others, eh. Too white, load a goon. When she growed up a bit more her skin turned up real charcoal like. Yeah, she coloured into a piece a coal. Black as Harry's arse. The wankers say: she too black for us, send the girl back. So back she go to her mob. They didn't want her. The whites didn't want her. She was sorta stuck in the middle like. Piggy in de middle.

Now what she doned?

Oh yeah, she done tell everyone that she's not Phyllis Swan at all! Oowhhh noooo! She says she really the Queen a England! Conned herself good n proper. The mad thing was, white fellas treated the woman whit respect! Like she truly were the Queen! I swear to God every time I seed that woman she were gettin whiter every day! White as friggin frost. Like she believed it so much that her skin was believin it too! Funny sorta turnout n all. Maybe this somethin like Nevil goin through. Conned hisself good n proper like. Hope he don't start thinkin that he be the friggin Queen! Jeeessuuss.

Now, how I'll tell me brother Booty? He won't like it! He'll kick Nev's arse for sure. Oh geez, what's a woman to do? It's all
Davo's fault. Yep, pissin off on the boy just like that. No father to play football whit, play cricket whit, nothin. Spose a woman'll have to try n get Booty to have a yarn to him. Me boy won't listen to me. Now where the friggin hell did he get a name like Jean Rhys? A white woman writer, geez, couldn't he a picked a black woman writer? Someone spectable like Oodgeroo? Bloody white woman me fat arse!

That's our Nev's problem, got his head stuck in all em books. Brainwashed. Them books have brainwashed him. Yeah, reckon that's bout the strength of it. Ain't no kid ever woked up whit headcrackin shit like this.

I let me thoughts go while I radar Nev's bedroom, lookin for any sign—any
gay
sign. In the corner books sit stacked up on each other, some tattered and dog-eared, others brandnew.
Well, spose he does spend his money on other things part from piss n dope.

I kneel down and look closer at the cover pictures and titles.
Yeah, some freaky stuff here all right.
I look for anythin that might have the name Jean R-h-y-s. Unstackin the books, I run me eyes over each one. There must be somethin here. Some clue.

Then I do notice somethin, five books by the same writer.
An Ideal Husband, Salome, The Importance of Being Earnest, Lady Windermere's Fan, A Woman of No Importance.
I take in the writer's name: Oscar Wilde. A playwright, the cover says.
What the hell's a playwright?

I flick the cover open but there seems nothin outta place, nothin that would brainwash a man into thinkin hisself a woman. Just writin. Me eyes flick back to the other book,
A Woman Of No Importance. Now that sounds a bit suss. Maybe the boy don't think he important? A Woman Of No Importance? Hhhmmm.

Sighin, I get up to me feet decidin I've had enough of this
Nevil wantin to be a woman shit.
There's only one person who can talk some sense into the boy and I'll have to go and find him. Yep, can't have Nevil walkin down the main street in a dress. Geez.

I walk past the bathroom. Nevil's voice sings out loud and deep. ‘I am woman, hear me roar!'

‘Bloody wake up to yerself, Nevil!' I yell as I open the front door and step out onto the street.
Watch me roar, Jeesus Christ! What's he now, a lion?

‘He woke up like that.' I look at Booty from across the kitchen table.

‘Mave, men don't wake up bein poofters. Look at me, you don't see me wantin to wear women's clothes, eh?' He sips his beer.

‘I'm tellin ya, Booty, he wasn't like that yesterday. He wake up like that! Sorta like ... um, whatever it is, just stayed hidin in him n jumped out this morning,' I say, flappin me arms out to prove me point.

‘Jumped out, my black arse. He was always like that, Mave, you jus never saw it is all. Women's clothes, Jesus!' Booty shakes his head, disgust washin over his fat face.