Legacy (3 page)

4

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

I have the window seat so I can see the southern suburbs of Sydney lit by the early morning sun as we land. I grab a bottle of Mum's favourite perfume, some cigarettes (for Patricia Tyndale), and a bottle each of Vodka and Cointreau (for cocktails with Tanya) at the duty free before going through Immigration and Customs.

I direct the cab to Tanya's flat. It has a view of Clovelly Beach. As I walk through her door, Tanya eyes my duty free. ‘We can put that to good use,' she says.

I drop my bags in her hallway and notice that there is mucky white stuff stuck to the back of the front door. I look at Tanya for an explanation. ‘I threw his dinner at him. It's mashed potato,' she shrugs. ‘The chicken and bok choy didn't stick as well.'

We walk down the hill to the little cafes. It is almost nine o'clock by the time our breakfast arrives.

‘You look pale,' I tell Tanya as she stares at her food.

She looks up at me with a weak smile. ‘That is a terrible thing to say to an Aborigine.'

We scan the beach from where we are sitting. There are plenty of people around, those who do not need or do not want to work.

‘Are you going to tell me about it?' I understand Tanya so well and know now is the time to ask her about Terry.

‘Well,' she starts, ‘you told me that by asking him outright I would know if something was wrong. So I asked him what he was doing out so late, did he think I was stupid? And he said, “If you must know, I have been seeing someone else.” Like I was asking for it, you know?' She bites her lip. She looks away for a moment, then turning her gaze back to me, she continues, ‘And it turns out it is some barmaid from the Crown. That's when I threw the meal I had cooked for him the night before. He ducked and it sprayed all over the wall. “Well,” he said very coolly, “if that's how you want it, I guess I'll leave.” As though I was the one humping some young chicky after the pub closed!'

‘Oh, Tanya. I'm so sorry.'

‘And that was it. He left. He said he was in love with Tiffany - that's her name, can you believe it?'

‘Coward,' I say. ‘He's a coward.'

‘He didn't have the guts to tell me himself that he was a two-timing rat bastard. I had to figure it out for myself. And then he uses my anger as the excuse to leave. I've just finished stuffing all his clothes into plastic garbage bags and I'm going to put them on the front porch.'

‘Men,' I say. ‘They're all the same.' Tanya and I continue to scan the beach watching a jogger run by, a couple walking their dog, mothers and their small armies of children. I think again of my father and our last conversation. ‘You know, I think my dad is having an affair too. He's not home when I call late at night. From time to time I hear these whispers, snippets of rumours, innuendo. Enough to make me suspect but not enough evidence to say for sure.'

‘There's something about your dad,' Tanya says with a teary, wry smile. ‘You know what? I have to admit, I've always fancied him. Tall, dark, handsome, passionate …'

‘Tanya! ' I hit her arm playfully and give her a pretend-angry look.

‘Don't worry. Your mother is the only person who could put up with him. She's a saint. I once saw a documentary about lions and how there is an alpha male in each of the prides who the female lions are all attracted to. There were also beta males, other males who were happy enough to just follow the alpha males. Your dad's an alpha male and you can't be near him without at least a fleeting sense of being secure and safe.'

‘Well, that may be but if women throw themselves at him, he doesn't have to respond. Jamie wouldn't have.'

‘Yes. Now Jamie is definitely a beta male.' I wonder if I've just detected a weary sigh in her voice. ‘But I thought we weren't going to talk about him anymore,' she quickly adds.

It is one in the afternoon before I open the door to my parents' house. I quietly put my bags down and walk towards the back where I can hear the radio playing. Mum is seated at the kitchen table, working. She looks soft with her blonde hair looped in a loose bun. Gentle, innocent, like her name - Beth Ann. She peers at me through her glasses as I walk in as though she is waiting for her eyes to adjust.

‘Darling,' she cries, shocked, when she finally believes that it is actually me standing before her. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I thought I'd surprise you.'

She rises and rushes to embrace me. ‘I can't believe it's you.' She pulls away and looks at me again. ‘Why didn't you tell me you were coming home?'

‘You completely stress out when I fly so I thought I'd save you the anxiety. I hoped it would be a nice surprise for you. And Dad.'

‘Your father's at work but he'll be so thrilled to see you.'

‘Yeah,' I say dismissively, but she plants the seed in my head that I should wander over to the Legal Service and surprise him in person.

But first I let Mum make me a sandwich. She also sets out two Tim Tams (‘one for each hand') for me on a little matching saucer. Just like when I was a kid. It makes me realise how much I miss her fussing over me when I am so far away.

She fills me in on things that have happened since I've been away, tells me Mrs O'Conner over the road had been rushed to hospital, Annie Davies her colleague from the prison literacy program finally got engaged to ‘that nice schoolteacher', Nan was promising to come for a visit soon, my cousin Erin is pregnant - again. These are the events that keep her world turning and, as I listen, I think how little everything has really changed since I was last sitting in Mum's kitchen listening to all her news. I want to interrupt her and tell her that I went to see Spike Lee and Oliver Stone talk about film-making, that I've done a creative writing class with Joyce Carol Oates and that since I read Mary Douglas's
How Institutions Think
I have not thought of law reform in the same way. But I am silent and smile at her while I sip my tea.

After our lunch, Mum resumes the preparation for her class, apologetic because she has to rush. ‘If only you had given me some warning,' she chastises and kisses me on the forehead.

*

The Legal Service that Dad runs takes up two adjoining terrace houses that have been renovated to make a single labyrinth. As I walk into the reception area I see Carol Turner perched at her desk. She squeals when she sees me.

‘Hey, Sistergirl.'

She rushes around the desk and gives me a bear hug. I am almost swallowed by her size. She smells of talcum powder.

‘Did you bring me back anything from the States? Something dark chocolate and rich. Like Denzel Washington?'

‘No. He said he was going to leave it to Valentine's Day to fly in and surprise you.' I clap my hand over my mouth as if I've let the cat out of the bag.

She laughs her deep throaty laugh. ‘Speaking of surprises, your dad didn't tell me you were back.'

I wink at her. ‘He doesn't know.'

I walk down the corridor towards his office at the back. The walls are covered with posters from various educational campaigns. Say no to drugs. Say no to violence. Get your child immunised. Say yes to education. Demand a treaty. Stand up for your rights. I like the poster that has Patricia Tyndale on it, her arms folded across her chest and her eyes resting accusingly on me. The poster tells me to enrol to vote. ‘We fought hard for our rights,' it says. ‘It's your responsibility to exercise them.'

When I walk into Dad's office, I see a young woman perched on his desk. She's on the side where his chair is and he is sitting down, leaning back, looking up into her face. He is animated. I am almost through the doorway before he notices me. He stands too quickly and the look of immediate astonishment on his face, followed quickly by the slow comprehension that it is his daughter who's just walked in, causes the woman to turn her head towards me.

‘Surprise,' I say flatly.

‘Simone!' he exclaims, and pushes past the young woman to give me a hug. I stand in his embrace, unresponsive. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I decided to come home and check up on things.'

I look at the young woman as I say this, recall the way her body had curved towards my father and I give her my best disapproving look. She looks at me expectantly and I turn to my father. I glance at the fly on his trousers to make my point.

‘I want you to meet Rachel Miles. She is the new legal officer here.'

‘Hi,' she says, holding out her hand. I take it limply.

‘You came and spoke to our Indigenous People and the Law class about the Stolen Generations. I thought your talk was insightful. Inspiring.' She is not gushing when she says this, not patronising. She has long dark hair and, I grudgingly admit, is captivating to look at. Her intelligence shows clearly on her face. In other circumstances, I might have really liked her.

‘Well, what are you up to, Dad?' I say, hoping that he will understand the accusation.

‘I'll leave you two to catch up then,' Rachel says as she leaves, giving my father an extra moment to compose himself before he answers me.

I stare at her as she walks away, down the hall.

‘I'm glad you're here, Princess,' Dad says. ‘How's my first born?'

I ignore his attempt at playful banter and keep staring at Rachel's receding form. When she turns the corner at the end of the hall, I slowly turn towards him with my eyebrows raised.

‘She's a good kid,' he says, as though I was cranky with her, not him. ‘And you of all people should be happy that we can finally recruit Aboriginal people into the legal officer positions.'

5

‘The problem with children,' Tony Harlowe said to Carol Turner, ‘is that they grow up and learn how to talk. And then learn how to answer back.'

‘Well, children are just a reflection on their parents,' she replied, one hand resting on her desk, the other on her hip. ‘I always say, you breed 'em, you feed 'em. And you reap what you sow.'

‘You seem to have no shortage of cliches up your sleeve and you don't have any children.'

‘Well, I just haven't found the right genetic material to breed with yet. Not through want of trying, mind you, but it seems as though a girl has to kiss a lot of frogs before she finds a handsome prince these days. And I mean a lot. Anyway, you are proud of that daughter of yours. You must have done something right.'

Tony looked at her and smiled. ‘To tell you the truth, I was just glad she didn't get herself knocked up before she finished high school like all her cousins did. Everything after that has been a bonus.'

‘Yeah. Right.' Carol smiled back. ‘That's why you are so good at weaving the “H” word into a conversation.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, like you say, “My daughter - who is studying at Harvard - bought me this for my birthday.” Or, “Carol, what is my next appointment, because my daughter is studying at Harvard and I need to be free before she calls.” ' Carol gave Tony a smug look.

‘Carol, what is my next appointment, because my daughter - who is studying at Harvard - has turned into a right pain in my ass and I need to be free as soon as I can so I can return home so she can continue to patronise me.' He looked smugly back.

Carol laughed and checked her computer screen. ‘You have an appointment at four o'clock with a Darren Brown. Wants to talk to you about the Tent Embassy.'

Tony walked back to his office. How rapidly time had passed since Simone was just a little girl, playing under the tables when he was chairing a meeting or delivering a speech. She would sit in the kitchen while he cooked and he'd talk to her about invasion, dispossession, stolen children, stolen wages, Aboriginal sovereignty, all kinds of things. She would hang onto his every word, adoringly.

The next thing she was starting law school, then she was graduating. He thought sometimes he would explode with the pride of seeing her, at how he had made something so beautiful. But clever. So very clever. And that was even before she got accepted to Harvard University.

Carol was right. Since then, every second word from his mouth was ‘Harvard'. But what he couldn't say - not to anyone, especially not to someone like Carol who seemed so quick to see his imperfections - was that since Simone had been there, since she had achieved this success, she had seemed to have grown disdainful of him, to see him as flawed. She constantly implied that she was disappointed in him.

She had always been a strange creature to him - sophisticated and, he had to admit, spoilt. If he had met a girl like Simone when he was young, he would not have known what to say around her. She spoke French and Spanish, talked on and on about designer this and designer that, attended fancy exhibition openings. She would scoff at the way he ate his scrambled eggs with tomato sauce or roll her eyes at him when he suggested they go fishing. ‘They have these things called shops, Dad, so you can just buy the fish,' she would say, her hands on her hips. And at those moments he would be struck by how she had her mother's nose and chin, but unmistakably, undeniably, his eyes, his full mouth and his defiance.

He had protected her from the harshest aspects of life, the things he had seen, had endured, growing up in a small country town full of hate. He thought he had saved her from the bitterness that racism could give you. He had not intended to spoil her, had sent her to spend time with people who didn't have the advantages she had, so she would have some perspective. So she would know something of life, not be ignorant of the hardship, of the existence he had left behind, of what he had saved her from.

When he gave her lessons in history and politics, this creature he loved more than any other, he felt as though he was trying to impress her. When she looked up at him in those days he felt a pride that made him feel flushed. But she had not looked at him that way for a very long time.

Darren Brown was a handsome young man, with eager eyes, a strong chin and his dark hair pulled back into a thick ponytail. Tony thought he looked like a candidate for Carol's quest for ‘good genetic material' and made a note to tease her about it later.

‘It's such an honour to meet you, sir,' Darren gushed. ‘My family are Gamillaroi people from Brewarrina.'

‘Please, call me Tony and take a seat,' he replied with a magnanimous sweep of his hand. Tony felt comfortable in the position of mentor and benefactor. ‘I believe you have come up from the Embassy in Canberra.'

‘Yes, I've been there for a few months. I have to say, you are one of the reasons I went there in the first place. I heard you speak at the Invasion Day rally. I had been studying law - well, I'm still enrolled but I have taken leave this year - and what you said just made so much sense. More sense than anything that I was reading at uni, you know?'

‘Well,' Tony said, using another of his standard lines. ‘The white man's law is all about power relations and built on the lies of colonisation.'

Tony had always known how to read an audience. It was a gift, one that had served him well most of his days, especially after the Tent Embassy when he became a vocal advocate for the rights of his people. He could sense the audience getting caught up in what he was saying, seemed to know intuitively just what they wanted to hear.

Darren Brown, the young Aboriginal law school drop-out was his target demographic. Tony felt rejuvenated just seeing the look of reverence and animation that Simone had once worn on another young face. He settled back comfortably into his chair.

‘So, what did you want to talk to me about then?'

‘We are trying to get heritage listing for the Tent Embassy. I need to pull together as much information as I can so I can prepare the proposal. So I guess I thought I could interview you now, ask a few questions and, if that's okay, come back again for some follow-ups.'

‘Sure,' replied Tony. ‘Whatever you need.'

‘Great,' Darren smiled. And then, looking serious, ‘It's such an honour to get this chance to talk to you.'

‘Well, I'm not sure about that,' responded Tony, attempting modesty. ‘But before you ask away, let me tell you something.'

Aware that Darren was hanging onto his every word, pen poised and writing pad ready, Tony paused for effect. ‘The first thing you need to appreciate,' he continued, ‘is that the Tent Embassy was the culmination of all the work that had gone on from the 1880s through to the 1930s and beyond to improve the lives of Aboriginal people. But, at the same time, it was the beginning of the modern land rights movement as well.'

Tony leaned a little further back in his chair. Darren, with brow furrowed, scribbled quickly.

‘You see,' Tony continued, ‘what we did at the Tent Embassy had its intellectual beginnings in the work of men like Fred Maynard, William Cooper and William Ferguson. They were men who worked on the land. They wanted to know why they were stopped from earning their own livelihood, from owning the land themselves when they worked as hard as any white person. They argued for citizenship rights - equal rights - because they had grown up unable to earn equal wages, unable to apply for the same level of financial support as white people when they were unable to find employment, even needing to apply for permission to move from the reserve and to marry.'

Tony watched as Darren tried to write down everything he was saying and paused to give the lad time to catch up.

‘These men, the Maynards and Coopers and the like, they were self-educated men and their Australia was one that was riddled with the inability to enjoy the basic rights and freedoms that all other Australians enjoyed unquestioningly: the right to family, the right to livelihood, freedom of movement, freedom of speech, freedom from racial discrimination.'

Tony was working himself up speaking on one of his favourite themes. He spoke about the way leaders like Maynard and Cooper had believed that Aboriginal people, through their own hard work and initiative, could improve their own socio-economic circumstances and shake off their poverty.

‘What do you think William Cooper would think if he saw the state of Aboriginal communities and families across Australia today?' Darren asked, looking up as he hunched over his notepad.

‘Hmmm, good question. Well, I'd guess he'd probably be impressed by the way in which our people have gained access in the last three decades to many opportunities that were unthinkable previously. In Cooper's day, who'd have thought we would have the numbers of Aboriginal graduates from high schools and universities that we have now. We've seen more and more Aboriginal people become nurses, teachers, lawyers, doctors, accountants, engineers.'

Tony gave Darren time to catch up. He thought about Simone, how his throat was thick with satisfaction as she walked across the stage in her graduation gown, the hem swaying around her high heels.

Darren looked up from his notebook.

‘How did you come to be at the Tent Embassy?' Darren asked.

‘I remember hearing through the black grapevine that these blokes - Billy Craigie, Michael Anderson, Bertie Williams and Tony Coorie - had gone to Canberra and set up a protest right in front of Parliament House. I'd grown up on an old mission and me and my mate, Arthur Randall, had hitched rides, jumped a train and even walked part of the way until we got there. Heaps of people had arrived by then.' Tony could see the images, the crowded tents and tarpaulins as they clustered together on the lawn. He could remember the pungent, rank smells of communal living. ‘We were drawn there by the frustration that nothing had changed since the '67 referendum.'

Tony explained how people had organised, protested and advocated for the two decades leading up to the vote to change the Constitution in 1967, in the expectation that it would provide new opportunities. ‘But we woke up the morning after and nothing had changed. We came to realise that we needed something more. The time for this movement was ripe. The moment had come. And I just knew that I had to be a part of it.'

When Darren finally looked up at him Tony was reminded of how strong the young man's features were. Dark eyes and thick lashes. Clear skin. Sleek lines on his face. But he could see something else in Darren, something in the intensity with which he wrote Tony's answers, with which he had devoted himself to something he believed in. It reminded Tony of himself when he was younger.

‘When I was your age, I didn't have the opportunities you have now. You should think of that before you throw them away. Why did you drop out of uni?'

‘Family things, I guess. My mother got sick and then I got caught up with this.' Darren waved his notebook.

‘Well, the Tent Embassy is important. No denying that. And I know how it is with blackfellas and their families. But you'll be more valuable to our community and better able to provide for them if you get the best education you can. There's something for you to think about before I see you next.'

*

How easy the telling of this version of history had become, as though it really had been the truth. A favourite theme of his speeches, Tony thought, still sitting at his desk an hour after Darren had left, was the way white history was a fabrication, a story woven with lies. And the irony was that his own history had become the same thing. And while he had told the story of how he had been drawn towards the swelling activity on the lawns of Parliament House, the truth was he had been running away. Running away from secrets, dark secrets.

Tony had invented his own rules for survival back then, a list of five principles he had created during the rough and tumble of that trip to Canberra. He had scribbled down what he referred to as ‘Tony Harlowe's Five Survival Rules' on the inside cover of a copy of George Orwell's
Animal Farm,
one of his favourite books, one of the few things he had taken with him when he fled his old life.

One of the rules was to stay in the spotlight. After all, if people don't see you, how do they know you exist? Everything is judged by appearance; what is unseen counts for nothing. Tony's intention was - had been for a long time - to attract attention by being larger, more charismatic, more mysterious than his rivals. Cicero once said that even those who argue against fame still want the books they write against it to bear their name on the cover. We will let our friends share almost anything, but nobody wants to share their fame or reputation.

For years Tony Harlowe had wanted to make a name for himself, had wanted to be someone. The first rule for survival he had written down was ‘Be someone else'. And the Tent Embassy had given him a stepping stone from which to do that.