The eighth of May, 2020 – two years since.
Last night I made a fire out the back and roasted fresh chestnuts from Harris Farm. Not being a traditional thing in Australia, I first came across roasted chestnuts with a group of friends in my early twenties on our driving trip along the Great Ocean Road in Victoria.
We were camped on the beach, not so easy these days. That is often where we used to sleep, down on the sand, making sure to avoid the high tide line. On one trip I remember waking up to find out sleeping bags all laid out in a row, and found the tide line had moved jaggedly across every person just missing them by inches.
On this evening, I had a terrible headache in the afternoon and went to sleep it off with a couple of Mersyndol.
When I came back to the fire, headache relieved someone offered me roasted chestnuts. I could not believe how good they were. I was also introduced to ricotta cheese on that same trip and loved it. I could have eaten the whole block.
When I moved into the lesbian community I got introduced to so many foods that we never had an idea about when I was growing up. Mango, avocado and Earl Grey Tea, expensive things I suddenly knew all about. None of these things existed in poor Sydney families.
Years later, Gabs and I went Melbourne to see Wicked. It was an unusual weekend away for us and staying at a fancy place, with glass lifts on the inside of the foyer that would zoom up and down. In 2020, this joint became a major transmission site of corona virus for quarantined returnees. If we only knew then how things would turn out, on so many fronts? Hindsight, always 20/20.
I thought Gabs would like it. Theatre that is. Theoretically she liked it. People raved about Wicked, some of our most beloved friends, so it must be good. Neither of us really knew what to expect as we were not really theatre goers. We were more movie watchers. Plenty of cinemas but to us, live shows were a little like a noisy conversation around the dinner table. More for the doers than the receivers.
But Wicked was something expensive that the middle class people liked so it must be good. Not to say that I had never been in a theatre but I had not been to a massive modern production like this. We acted like we thought other people would act, wanting to be part of things. Oh yes, we should definitely buy a program.
On that evening we spent a lot of time walking around Melbourne city, watching young guys rap and break dance in the streets. Well that was the most interesting thing to both of us. The way people would intensely talk to each other for hours didn’t really sit with us. Ours was a more casual back and forth. No long winded soliloquys. We cruised around looking, watching the world. Hoping for a laugh or a good idea.
And then the show started. Bloody old Bert Newton was in it. Ha ha. I mean good for him. Good on you Bert. Just that he typified a certain stereotype on TV and although he loved the theatre, Gab and I only could see him in his, butt of the joke, television roles.
Gabs couldn’t stand the noise of the musical. It was too loud. She got scared. Particularly when the stage machinery burst out atop the audience. It freaked her out. She had to leave. I wanted to stay and listen to the story and I loved the brilliant take on the modern world. It really was brilliant, if noisy.
Gaby asked me, ‘Is this Melbourne trip a reward for being good? for getting off the drugs and stuff?’ I didn’t know how to answer her. I said yes, not knowing if it was true. I was never sure if she was really ‘off’ the drugs but it made me feel hopeful.
Back in the motel, we both enjoyed being in our double beds next to each other, and reading, giggling, reading. We went on the horse and buggy around Melbourne and ate roasted chestnuts that seemed to be sold on every corner. The next day we went shopping and Gabs threatened to steal things from the shops. She was teasing me that she was going to steal a present for me, knowing full well that it would freak me out. She liked to see me trying to control her and teach her right from wrong at the ripe old age of thirty something.
I was like no! you can not do that.
I have a beautiful scarf that she got me. I still don’t know if she stole it or not, I told her if it was stolen that I did not want it. I would report her. She said she paid for it. The unanswered questions the unanswered things, the unspoken things. She told me she didn’t steal it and then she did and then she didn’t. I don’t know the truth.
She would give me this look, to see how far I really knew what was going on. How much should I trust her. Don’t steal things. It’s wrong I would say to her. She would laugh at me. It’s a bit late for that mum.
To be honest I taught her that behaviour. When we were living in Paddington, and Gabs was four years old, we used to go down to Centennial Park and play with the kids. There were a lot of other kids there and one day we saw Jeannie Little and her daughter. I see her on the television recently. Six degrees.
My friend suggested that our kids Gaby and Macushla, who had Down Syndrome, should go begging for food and just take it if they wont give you anything. We feigned greater poverty than was real, looking for a free giveaway. Mostly for laughs. And because we could.
I didn’t grow up like that. Why would I allow my daughter to do that?
No backbone. No standing up for myself and for what was right. My morality was available for the highest bidder. Someone to be my friend. Anyone? Doesn’t matter. Please just like me and want me around. I didn’t really have myself for myself you see.
Yeah I know no excuses – is true, but so exceptionally painful. An early in life mistake that I followed through on and adopted as identity. Eeeeech. Help! And now I have to grow up and be honest about her life as the circumstances were a set up for us all.
In May, 2020, I’m as shocked as I was on day one of knowing of her death. Every fibre of my being clutches to hold her and bring her back. Every stomach felt gnawing wants to retrieve her from the abyss of the lost ones.
And then this morning there were roasted chestnuts and I thought of ‘that old chestnut’. Gabs and I would have looked at each other in the eye and laughed – sharing that thought.
So sorry you did not get another chance, my darling daughter.