High Sobriety (39 page)

After we leave the pub, five of us take a walk along Portobello beach promenade. It's a chilly Sunday afternoon, with a bracing wind. The sun is setting, turning the horizon into a beautiful fleece of amber and pink. We walk towards it, huddled together. It's clear from the conversation how moving this loss has been for all of us, even for those who never met Jude. How could this happen? It's not right. None of this is right. As we walk, we talk about the things that have been consuming my mind: how it's shocked us into paying greater respect to what we have, where we came from, and where we want to be. I don't know them as I once did, and we may not talk for another ten years, but right now I feel a profound sense of closeness to these old school friends. The ties of our shared past are now interwoven with these bonds of grief and renewed perspective. I'm glad that I haven't had a drink today. I want to experience these feelings in all their depth — life is so much richer when you let yourself feel. When we say goodbye, there's an intensity to the hugs that buoys me. Jude's life means something. Somehow this tragedy has lifted us up. We are better people for it.

BACK IN MELBOURNE,
I try to return to something akin to normal. The first week is tough. On Friday night, after a particularly bad day at work, I catch up with Kath and Loretta for dinner at a bar near my place. I don't feel like it at all. When I arrive, I tell them that I'm really flat and won't stay long because I just want to hibernate. They convince me to stay and talk. They know how much I'm struggling. Both of them have spent time with Fiona: Kath met her when we went to Scotland last year, and we all danced till the wee small hours; Loretta had an afternoon of sampling malt whiskies with Fiona and mum a few years ago, during a visit to Edinburgh.

I decide not to leave, and we end up having a wonderful night together. I stick to water while they have wine, but I don't feel as if I'm missing out. We talk about our plans for the future, our hopes, and our fears. We vow to always be daring, and not sit passively by as life wanders past. It's as if, being with them, I've been plugged in — I can feel myself recharging. As they build me up, I have one of those sweet moments of clarity where I can see how blessed I am to have these two beautiful women in my world. At a time when I'm trying to process my grief, their friendship is life-affirming. I'm reflecting on this on the tram ride to work the next day; I text them both to say how much their friendship means to me. The perspective Jude's passing has brought is allowing me to feel things I've never felt. It's helped me see what's right there in front of me.

Staying true to my
carpe diem
pledge, I decide to say yes to something that scares me. A friend, Jo, is getting married in a few weeks. She heard about my music-school gig and has asked me to be one of the singers in a wedding band with some of the couple's friends. Initially I thought, I can't do it; I've got too much work to do. Loretta and Kath made me see that this was an excuse. The thought of singing in front of 100 wedding guests petrifies me, but I've discovered that most of the things worth doing in life are scary — it's what makes the rewards that much greater.

I turn up to my first rehearsal in a real studio, with a bunch of musicians who are so talented, it's intimidating just to stand next to them. It's a hot, sticky night, and everyone's cooling down with a beer or a glass of wine. With all that's happened these last few weeks, I've shelved thoughts of when I might drink again. Tonight, I stay on water, but it brings my mind back to the decision ahead of me. I wonder if, where, and when I should have my first drink. My worries about what will happen when I invite alcohol back into my life are less pronounced than they were a few weeks ago. Part of me is still nervous that Jon Currie's elastic-band analogy will prove prophetic and that my drinking habits will quickly snap back to old ways, but the part of me that's just had the cruellest of life lessons believes I won't allow that to happen.

When it's my turn to step up to the mike in the studio, I rock out. The buzz is electrifying, and it's such a stress relief. By the end of the night I feel as if I've run a half-marathon; the tension has gone from my body. It is more fun than I've had in a very long time.

ON THE MORNING
of my citizenship ceremony, I'm quite excited. It feels like a big occasion, a festival of me, like my graduation or my 21st birthday. But hopefully this time I'll remember all of it tomorrow. I dress appropriately, in a green dress with a gold cardigan and handbag. Whether I'm drinking or not, no-one can accuse me of being un-Australian in these colours.

Reading
The Age
as I get ready, I see a story that puts the day in context. New figures have revealed that Australia Day — when people come together to celebrate nationhood, mateship, and the fruit of this bountiful land — is the number-one holiday for heavy drinking, assaults, and car accidents among young people. On this day, more under-25s drink too much, ending up in hospital in higher numbers than on any other public holiday. There are more than double the usual number of ambulance callouts, and a 50 per cent increase in emergency-department presentations. Injuries for assaults also double on Australia Day.

Somewhere along the way, young people have learned that to be a true-blue Aussie, you need to get plastered. I'm not sure it's always been like this. I've only been here ten years, but it seems as if the link between alcoholic obliteration and national pride has become more pronounced in the last few years. I'm usually working on Australia Day, so this is one holiday with which I don't have a drunken history, but last year I remember leaving work about 6.00 p.m., and seeing hoards of teenagers and 20-somethings pouring out of a tram coming from St Kilda Beach. Draped in Aussie flags, and wearing bikinis, hats, and tattoos of the flag, many of them were blind drunk. The mood didn't seem celebratory. I'm not sure if any of them could have articulated what it was their boozing was commemorating.

Our national leaders don't always help. At the Australia-versus-India test match at the Sydney Cricket Ground earlier this month, former prime minister Bob Hawke made a hero of himself, not for the first time, by sculling a beer. As he walked through the crowd, he was handed a cold one, with a supporter yelling out, ‘One for the country, Robert.' With a backdrop of shirtless men cheering and playing bongo drums, 82-year-old Hawkie knocked back the entire beer in one long gulp, to the delight of the crowd. Even the police officers laughed. His sculling was a sign of his patriotism, with one supporter explaining, ‘He's just a great Aussie bloke.' Prime Minister Julia Gillard would later remark that Hawke got more media attention for downing that beer than she did for announcing $95 million in cricket funding, musing that next time she made an announcement she should do it with a beer in her hand.

Sadly, Chris misses out on Young Australian of the Year. He was among a field of talented high achievers, but it's disappointing not to see him get the recognition he deserves. A week later,
Hello Sunday Morning
is knocked back for a community grant under the federal government's National Binge Drinking Strategy. Politicians talk a good game about wanting to change the culture around alcohol, but when faced with someone who has a proven method of doing that, they look the other way.

As I drive to Coburg Town Hall for my citizenship ceremony, it's a beautiful morning. There's a laid-back holiday feel to the streets, which are quieter than usual, and it does seem that most of Melbourne is already in the party mood. A guy riding a bike one-handed is swigging a Corona. Another bloke walking across the street alone is drinking a Boag's. A couple struggle with a slab and an esky as they head to the tram stop. It's as if being caught in public without alcohol on this day is unpatriotic. By the time I arrive at the town hall and mingle with my fellow citizens-to-be, I've already decided that today is not the day I'll have my first drink. One thing I've learned from a year of abstinence is that drinking just for the sake of it is pointless. Having a beer simply because it's Australia Day seems a poor reason to start drinking, especially when I don't even feel like alcohol.

Fifteen friends turn up to watch me take the pledge. I feel very much loved. There are numerous speeches from various local, state, and federal politicians. In his address, the mayor of Moreland City Council tells us that no-one expects we will forget our families or our homeland. ‘This makes you the person that you are,' he says. ‘These experiences will remain treasured memories. Leaving your home country means moving from the known to the unknown.' After the month I've just experienced, I couldn't agree more.

Finally, the time comes to make our pledge. Eighty of us stand and together recite the words, ‘From this time forward, I pledge my loyalty to Australia and its people, whose democratic beliefs I share, whose rights and liberties I respect, and whose laws I will uphold and obey.' The room erupts in applause, my little corner of fans leading the charge. The mayor then asks us to repeat one sentence: ‘I am Australian.' As I say the words, I'm more emotional than I expected. I feel proud to be part of this great nation. I look at my friends, cheering me on as they welcome me officially into the fold. I'm happy to be an Australian if being Australian means that I belong to them. Yet that familiar heart-torn feeling lingers. I think of the ones I love in Scotland: I think of Fiona, of Mum and Dad and Lisa. I'm theirs too. I hope I always will be.

When my name's called, I walk up to the mayor and wait to see what he gives me. There's no six-pack of beer. Instead, I receive a native sapling and a certificate. My entourage goes wild. Blinking against a lightning storm of cameras flashing, the mayor quips that I have more paparazzi than Elle Macpherson.

Later, in a beer garden, my friends propose a toast to me, their new Australian. I raise my lemonade to their beer. Afterwards, we go to another friend's house for a barbecue. There are more congratulations and hugs at my newfound Aussieness. It's a glorious afternoon. It strikes me that this is the essence of being Australian: spending time with family and friends on a summer's day at a backyard barbecue. I don't need a drink in my hand to feel part of that. Having a beer is something you enjoy. It's not who you are. It's not where you came from. Whether I'm Australian or Scottish, my identity is no longer tied to alcohol.

IT FEELS LIKE
the right time. I'm at Jo and Jamie's wedding. I've just watched them get married in a beautiful garden ceremony on a perfect Saturday afternoon in a country town north-west of Melbourne. Walking to the reception with friends, I decide that it would be nice to have a drink to toast this happy occasion. It's been nearly 14 months since my last; I've smashed the challenge. What am I waiting for? If I want to know if I can drink without alcohol controlling me, what better test than a weekend away at a wedding, with a free bar that's open till 3.00 A.M.

At the venue, my friend Megan goes to the bar to buy champagne and spreads word that I'm about to have my first drink. I'm told to wait a few minutes while more friends queue at the bar for their own drinks to toast me with. I've waited 413 days — nearly 14 months. A few more minutes won't hurt. Some people start filming, as if they're about to witness a dog walking on its hind legs. What's going to happen? Will I collapse in a drunken heap the moment that first drop of alcohol is absorbed into my bloodstream? Perhaps I'll vomit, or break out in a rash. My biggest worry is where I'll be at the end of the night. Will I morph into a shambolic Shane MacGowan/Keith Richards–inspired inebriate who jumps on the table, downs a bottle of Scotch, and performs a striptease?

Megan comes back and puts the glass of champagne in front of me. It fizzes like a cartoon bomb. I stare at it, biting my lip. My hands are clammy. Loretta, sitting on a stool next to me, puts an arm around my waist and gives me a squeeze. ‘It's all good.'

I'm not so sure. After this long without a drink, I have no idea where this glass of champers will take me. A friend said recently that it was like I'd been re-virginated. As if I'm waiting for my first time, scared it will hurt or that I'll make a fool of myself.

The other girls come back from the bar, and I raise my glass to theirs. There is whooping and cheering and flashing cameras. It's lovely that everyone wants to be part of this momentous occasion, but I'm not sure if they're cheering my achievement or the fact I've finally seen the light. I feel like an exiled cult member welcomed back into the sect, after realising that life on the outside was just as unfulfilling as I'd been warned.

As I reach over to clink glasses with those on the other side of the table, my champagne flute is snatched away by a mischievous friend. He's shouting, ‘Don't do it,' to jeers. Part of me wonders if maybe I should just let him keep it.

He hands it back and I raise the glass to my lips. I take a sip and wait.

‘How do you feel?' I'm asked before I've set the glass down on the table. Everyone's staring and grinning.

‘I don't know,' I say. ‘It's hard to explain.' But honestly, it feels like a massive anticlimax. There's no rush of energy like there was when I inadvertently had a hit of booze at the cocktail party — I'm not buzzing, or consumed by thoughts of getting drunk. Yet this night has a long way to go. ‘Ask me again in three hours, when I'm slumped in a corner,' I joke. If old habits are ever going to come back, then this night, with a stage on which I'll soon be performing and a dance floor filled with good friends, would be the occasion.