Tiddas (35 page)

She soon realised she was in the wrong bar for being picked up. A man of about ninety kept winking at her. Another of about fifty with high-waisted jeans and a baseball cap tucked into his belt kept looking at her longingly. She nearly fell off her chair when he saluted her. Meanwhile the eighteen-year-old barman wanted to buy her a drink after his shift ended.

She looked around at the women, some obviously on the make; it had been a long time since she'd sat at the bar by herself and just observed the mating rituals of others. She thought back to her Sunday morning breakfast, when
the waitress had placed the order for blueberry and ricotta pancakes before she had even sat down at her favourite table on the veranda facing the jacarandas across the road. The view from the café was only spoilt by the Australian flag flying outside the apartment block in Deakin Street, the Union Jack a stark reminder of the ongoing colonisation of her mob. Ellen reminded herself that Sunday morning was the best time to go to the Story Bridge, before all the divorcees arrived for the afternoon drinking and jam session. Tonight was no time to be there, especially given the mood she was in.

After her third glass of wine, she carefully got down from the barstool. She ordered a pizza to take away, went to the bottle shop, grabbed something on special, went home, ate two slices, drank one glass of wine and then cursed herself for the carb, sugar and fat intake. She'd run an extra K the next morning to feel better. And she'd wipe Craig from her life completely.

A
s Izzy entered the Flash Women exhibition in kuril dhagun

she heard the soulful voice of Georgia Corowa, then saw the young woman elegantly perched on a stool in a black version of Marilyn Monroe's plunging neckline dress. She was strumming her guitar to welcome guests on their arrival.

Izzy wove through the crowds which included the Minister, local Elders, the exhibitors, kids from Doomadgee State School, frocked up women from across the city wearing fascinators, and one or two men supporting their women.

She blinked twice, taking in the enormity of the Uluru dress with its metres and metres of burnt orange fabric that must have been stretched over a wire frame, Izzy thought, otherwise how
did
they make it stand up? It was the signature piece of the show and Izzy scanned the room for the designer, Juliette Knox, who was best known as the entrepreneur behind the Little Black Dress Empire. But it was the
Warrior Woman dress that carried her back home to Wiradjuri country and the strong women who had led the way for her personally. Izzy stared through the glass at the emu feather cloak and imagined herself in it.

She spotted the first Aboriginal model, Sandra Georgiou, across the room and wished it got cold enough in Brisbane to wear the cream cape that Georgiou had designed.

Oddly enough, it was the wedding dresses that Izzy spent most time admiring. She'd never thought about getting married before. But with a baby on the way, marriage was just another thing that pressed on her brain, something she knew her mother would want to see happen, sooner rather than later. She looked at Jacynthia Ghee's wedding dress from 1957 and read her words: ‘Love is not really an emotion – it's a purity of feeling – it's different to an emotional state.'

What does that actually mean?
Izzy thought.

Izzy read out loud a quote by Sharon Phineasa whose carved haircombs were on display: ‘Your appearance is an outward expression of an inward connection.' It was a positive affirmation for Indigenous women, and reminded her of all her strong tiddas across the country, many of whom were ‘flash women' indeed.

Izzy's back was aching as she interviewed the curator, Walbira Murray, who gave insights into the lives of the women featured in the exhibition.

‘I've witnessed the lateral violence against our women telling them that they can't be flash
and
Black. I wanted to tell them through this exhibition that we as Aboriginal women have
always
been flash. To think about how their
mothers and grandmothers used to dress,' Murray said into the camera, Izzy nodding in agreement.

‘I need to change the battery,' a young cameraman advised Izzy.

‘That's fine, I think we have enough. Walbira, thanks so much for your time,' and she kissed the woman who had a queue of well-wishers waiting to speak to her.

Izzy took a deep breath and sat down, quietly glad that her day was almost over. It was one of the most inspiring events she'd covered at the library and her last before giving birth. She was grateful to be going into motherhood with such fresh memories of deadly women. She finished her piece with a clip of Aunty Ruth Hegarty from Cherbourg, who in launching the exhibition had said: ‘It really doesn't matter what colour you are. It's a female thing. We like to dress up. And if our people can look at beauty rather than the scars within, then we're doing okay.'

Nadine sat with brochures, pamphlets and business cards strewn across the table. Words like yoga, tennis, bushwalking, meditation, zumba, crossfit and boot camp stared up at her.

‘What's all this, darling?'

Richard put a cup of green tea in front of her. There had been no glasses of wine on the veranda for weeks now. That, coupled with the HRT, meant Nadine's moods and behaviour had improved immeasurably. She was suffering with
issues of detoxing but had flatly refused to go to a detox centre or even a grog-free spa in Brisbane. She didn't want to feel more ashamed than she already did, so the night sweats and the shaking and the vomiting were only seen by her and Richard, the kids having been told that their mother had a bad virus. Nadine had upped her vitamin B intake as recommended on various websites she'd researched, and Xanthe had given her a whole set of organic herbal teas to keep up her hydration. Nadine's body was starting to repair, but it was the psychological and emotional side of her that needed work. Alcohol had been her friend for so long. It was her writing buddy; it gave her characters voice, and her storylines suspense and action. The problem was that Nadine didn't think she could create any more without it, so she had decided to take a break for a while to recover, rejuvenate, re-think her needs. And being active was one of those needs.

‘I need to do something more, something physical to keep me busy. I'm thinking yoga, zumba, maybe even boot camp.'

Richard laughed. ‘Nads, let's be serious, you'd
hate
boot camp! But I love you're at least considering something that will get you out of the house more.'

‘What about Bikram yoga, then? I do Pilates, so I should be able to do yoga.'

‘My flexible wife gets more flexible? I'm liking that idea already.'

‘You are very naughty.' She ran her hand down the zip of his work shorts, but he pulled away, smiling. ‘Let me finish sweeping first.'

Nadine read another brochure and considered the Kundalini yoga class in The Gap. She could go there with Veronica perhaps, although she couldn't recall Vee ever talking about yoga. Vee went bushwalking, and Nadine was convinced she did scrapbooking too but was too embarrassed to admit it.

‘Bloody crapbooking!' Nadine said out loud to no-one as she switched on her laptop. ‘I couldn't think of anything more boring!'

Richard heard his wife's self-talking. ‘You could scrapbook all your reviews and the articles about you.'

‘My publicist should do it,' Nadine snapped, then suddenly realised she hadn't heard from Claire in weeks. ‘Anyway, I thought
you
were doing that for me.'

‘I am, my love, I am.' He kissed her on the forehead. ‘But right now, I have to find some plants for my sister that she can't kill. Wish me luck.'

‘Luck!'

When Richard had left, Nadine sent an email to Xanthe, who was in Walgett, training at a local community organisation.

Dear Tidda,

I think I want to do Bikram yoga, but I am scared. What if I have a heart attack or stop breathing or just collapse from lack of fitness? I think it might just kill me. Can I just come and try it out with you? Please?

Love,

Nadine xo

Xanthe just happened to be online in her hotel room, taking a break with an instant coffee, and was grateful to hear from someone who wanted something from her that didn't involve work. She smiled as she typed:

Dear Nadine –

I would LOVE to take you to Bikram. It WON'T kill you. For the first class you just need to focus on being in the room for the 90 mins. That's all. If you can achieve that then you'll have done well. We'll put our mats up the back of the room and close to the door just in case you need to go out. You will feel the heat as soon as you enter. But you'll be fine. Just wear some shorts – they want to see your knees – and a singlet, and bring a bottle of water. I'm going next Monday. Do you want me to pick you up?

Love, your tidda.

Nadine's own day had suddenly got brighter. It had been forever since she'd exchanged emails with her tiddas – well, any that she could remember. She liked being in contact again and planning activities. She wrote back fast:

Dear Tidda –

Thank you so much for the support. But I think this might be the end of our friendship. I know you are good at it, and you take it seriously. I'll be the one who huffs and puffs and moans out loud, and probably farts too. You'll hate me at the end. But I would like to try it. My body needs it. My head needs it.
I can get Richard to drive me. He'll need to be there anyway if something goes wrong

Nadine xo

Xanthe was proud of Nadine and responded quickly before she made her way back to the community centre:

Nadine,

I will NOT hate you. I love that you are coming to do this with me. No-one else has ever asked or offered to come. I'd love to share the experience with you. I feel better every time I do it, even though I'm not that great. I'm glad you're coming, see you there. And I am proud of all the efforts you are making.

Love from Walgett,

Xanthe

Nadine read Xanthe's final email and wanted to cry. Not her usual drunken cry in the cemetery, but tears of gratitude. Grateful that her friends truly cared, were standing by and supporting her. As she got more sober, Nadine was realising the incredible good fortune she experienced every day, unrelated to the actual fortune she had in the bank.

She refused to attend an AA meeting in the local area – there was still some level of denial about the extent of her problem – and she also didn't want to give the locals any more fodder. She had been reading about the Twelve Steps, though, and while she struggled with the references to God and didn't believe that all the steps referred to her, she had taken the time to act on Step Eight. She had made a list of all
persons she had harmed, and was willing to make amends to them all. The dinner with her tiddas had been a big step for her. She also promised herself that she would follow Step Ten and continue to take personal inventory; when she was wrong, she would promptly admit it.

Forty-eight hours later Nadine and Richard made the trek from Brookfield to Bardon.

‘I feel sick,' she said to Richard, who was tapping a beat on the steering wheel as they drove to the yoga studio.

‘Are you all right?'

‘No, I feel sick with nerves. The freaking studio is thirty-seven degrees to start with.'

‘That can't be normal.' Richard was surprised.

‘It's not normal. But then neither am I. I probably deserve to melt into the flooring.'

‘Stop it!' Richard laughed at his wife warmly, and rubbed her right thigh after changing gears.

‘I love you.'

Richard smiled. ‘I love you too.'

‘You're not normal either, you know that, don't you?' She poked him in the left side.