One Way or Another (3 page)

While the Vultures continued our predatory antics, my transfer downmarket to Southport State High brought me a new circle of friends. Catholic school had been a world apart – heaven crossed with a concentration camp – and state school was a shock to the system. This place was more like a musky, dank jungle, earthy and untamed.

Girls at my new school had pierced noses and dyed hair and there were spotty boys everywhere, their voices crackling like pond frogs. It was common enough to stumble upon a couple making out in the locker rooms. Empty crisp packets and crushed cans of cola littered the playground. Pale tendrils of smoke rose from the barred windows of the lavatory blocks like papal heralds. Teachers swore and the school uniform came in hundreds of acceptable variations. I never once pined for the convent school. I did not miss my green beret or the soapy smell of the nuns. I certainly didn't miss their uncanny alertness to teenage sexuality, any hint of which would be promptly stomped on by sensible shoes.

Having my father at school was not as awkward as I had feared. It was a big place and he didn't teach me. I soon found my niche in the theatre set, a talented but troubled troupe of loud, hormonal time bombs. I felt right at home.

We were new-wave romantics and we avoided the playground, preferring to wallow like tortured artists in the school auditorium. We wrote plays and songs and poetry. There was Samantha, a beautiful girl with long, tangled blonde hair, dangerous blue eyes and a baby-doll air that worked beautifully with the boys. Sam's father lived far away on a hippy commune, which fascinated me. Then there was Jeanette, quiet but with a devil-may-care attitude and a laugh that sounded like the scratch of a needle across a record. Paul and Berzerko were graceful, hair-tossing boys with surly pouts, deeply handsome, dark and glowering, passionate about the theatre and both with beautiful singing voices. They had an odd love–hate relationship, alternating between flirting with one another and beating each other up.

It was a time of social awakening and the more daring boys pushed gender boundaries, taking their cues from Boy George, Freddie Mercury and Elton John. Frankie was going to Hollywood, Soft Cell sang of Tainted Love and it seemed the whole world was suddenly rainbow-coloured. But in the schoolyard, cruelty and ridicule were still thrown like rotten tomatoes at those brave kids who dared to explore.

‘Jeanette's in love with you,' Sam announced to me one morning.

I was intrigued. I'd briefly had an innocent crush on Joan Jett, but after giving it some thought had decided I wanted to
be
her rather than have a romantic liaison with her. Jeanette was androgynously beautiful. Her short dark hair fell in a tumble across one eye and she had cheekbones you could ski down. Coffee-brown eyes, olive skin and athletic lines. I felt no great surge of passion but a tender curiosity.

Not long after, we danced together at a school disco, brushing together occasionally like swaying branches. A current of forbidden electricity surged between us and we stepped outside and looked awkwardly at one another. A cool night breeze messed with our carefully coiffed hair. Jeanette kissed away my apprehension with her soft girl lips and I responded. Her skin was warm and she smelled like jasmine.

The kiss lingered in my mind as I lay awake in bed that night. It had been nice. It had been titillating. But I realised there was an invisible barrier around me, a heavy, clunky structure built on Catholic paranoia. In my head I knew I had done nothing wrong. But my terror of where that path might lead and the consequent wrath I might encounter crippled me. I did not know how to fight against such a formidable enemy. My culture. My parents' religion. Society. Narrow-mindedness.

I broke Jeanette's heart and the warmth between us cooled. Jeanette and Sam fell in love for a bit after that. A green flicker of envy teased me but I shooed it away. I was jealous but proud of the young people around me who dared to stand up to intolerance.

*

Having failed year eleven so abysmally the first time, I was determined to lift my grades. Once or twice a week I went dutifully with Dad to the staff-room after school, escaping the distraction of my two youngest siblings to study.

At home there was tension between my parents. For some time there had been a Siberian chill but now the unspoken hostility was mounting. I loved them both, as much as a teenager could, but saw that they were as ill matched as Felix and Oscar from
The Odd Couple
, only not as funny. I wondered when they'd stopped being happy together. Had they ever been happy? There were no fights, no raging finger pointing – just a taut silence and the heavy condensation of disappointment.

At least my improving grades gave them something to be glad about. Senior year brought with it a mountain of schoolwork, but with an arrogant lack of industry I managed to produce pleasing results. The rest of the Vulture Club had graduated a year ahead of me and were soon carried away by the tertiary merry-go-round. Rhonda was studying optometry in Brisbane, Tammy was doing an acting course in Armidale and Caroline had fallen off the radar. Jealous of their adult freedoms, I threw my energies into the pub-rock scene and a spate of reckless promiscuity. Burning a lusty trail, I crossed paths with the Angels, Cold Chisel, Cheap Trick, Midnight Oil and, much to Rhonda's consternation, INXS. And I retained a very soft spot for Australian Crawl, whom I could always count on for hydration in a dry spell.

Meanwhile, I began to turn my mind to life after school. I had decided to audition for NIDA, the best acting school in the country. The auditions weren't until October but I spent months preparing. Mum and Dad were careful to point out that my chances were extremely slim, but I was confident I had what it took. I spent a long time choosing my audition pieces and immersed myself in Shakespeare, finally settling on a speech by Lady Macbeth and another by Puck, the frisky sprite from
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. I would sit in my bedroom for hours, working myself into a Lady Macbeth fury and then scampering about the shag-pile carpet like a forest sprite. I'd pose in front of the mirror and try on facial expressions like a series of masks. Ferocious. Awestruck. Cheeky. Deranged.

The theatre scene on the Gold Coast was vibrant and there was no shortage of outlets for my passion for drama. I fell in with the aspiring showbiz crowd and found myself one night at one of their glamorous parties, high up in a penthouse belonging to somebody's mother. It was my first real taste of expensive living and it tasted good.

Our host was the archetypal Mr Gold Coast, only a few years older than I was but reportedly already a self-made millionaire. He had a teenage bikini model on his arm and surrounded himself with a cast of tawdry peacocks. He worked the room like a celebrity and then sat his golden personality down beside me, holding my hand as he talked. His eyes prickled my skin. I felt strangely hypnotised.

‘And what's your story?' he asked.

Having had a few French champagnes, I decided to be direct. Whether I wanted to shock, impress or both, I can't be sure.

‘I'm a schoolgirl who collects rock stars,' I laughed.

‘Wonderful. That's lovely.' He patted my knee.

‘Really?' I was taken aback. ‘Most people would be appalled.'

‘Not at all.' He shrugged. ‘It's natural. Innocence doesn't last forever. Might as well take it while it lasts ...' He glanced around.

‘Go on,' I encouraged.

‘Well, take the Gold Coast. It was originally like an innocent young girl. Unspoilt. Virginal.' I smiled at his analogy and saw where it was going. ‘But the developers took what they wanted and if it wasn't this stretch of beach it would have been another. It's evolution, progress. Now it's a free-for-all and everyone's happy.' He laughed.

‘So, you're calling the Gold Coast ... a tacky slut?'

‘Tacky? My word. But not a slut. Just attractive and available. She was lying there begging for it with all those beaches and tangled mangroves. She's been, shall we say, glamorised.'

He winked at me and drifted off.

At four in the morning, swilling the dregs of my warm champagne and surveying the shabby oysters, I took a mental snapshot of this two-storey penthouse with its pool, its antiques and its twinkling view and vowed to settle for nothing less. No brick veneer in the suburbs, 2.3 children and Labrador for me. I wanted it all. I wanted to go everywhere, see everything and meet everybody. Fame and fortune might be mirages, I knew – but I wanted to worship at the shrine of opulence.

*

As final exams approached, there was a mountain of schoolwork to get through. My parents vetoed most social invitations and I made the illicit trek to Bombay Rock less and less. But one balmy Friday night, after an Australian Crawl gig, I found myself on the rooftop of a beachfront highrise with Guy McDonough, the guitarist who had pranged the car the night of my initiation. We leaned over the rails and breathed deeply of the salty air. To the sound of crashing breakers we chatted loosely about the gig, the weather and current affairs. He had always struck me as arrogantly aloof, but tonight he seemed vulnerable and tragic.

‘What do you do, then?' he asked, only half interested in my answer.

‘I'm still at school.' I felt compelled to tell this man the truth.

He raised an eyebrow and whistled.

‘High school, I hope.' He grinned. ‘You should be at home doing your homework.'

I laughed and we sat down on the concrete, our backs resting on the wall. He told me about his school days and the frustrations of life on the road, working day in and day out with a group of fellows he didn't always get along with. His brother played drums and it sounded like they were close. I complained about my parents and their strict discipline, explaining how I crawled out my window to party in Surfers. He frowned at me.

‘You're lucky your parents care about you. It's a bit of a worry, you wandering about the streets at your age. Someone will take advantage of you.'

‘That's what I'm hoping for. It's worked so far.'

Was I flirting with him? I wasn't sure.

‘You're a very naughty girl.' He slapped my leg and shut his eyes.

And then we talked about music. He loved song writing and told me it was his lifeboat in a sea of sharks. I had a music assignment due in a week and told him about it.

‘I'm a bit ragged tonight,' he drawled. ‘Wanna catch up for a coffee tomorrow?'

‘Sure.' It was Friday night and I could steal away from home for an hour or so on a Saturday. I gave him my number and began the long walk home. It kept me fit and lean.

The next day my parents were off to visit my maternal grandparents in Toowoomba, a red and dusty town nearly three hours away. I begged off, citing a huge homework load. Guy rang just after they left.

‘Do you want to pop round to my place and I'll make you a coffee?' I offered. ‘I can play you what I've got on the piano and you can tell me if it's shit or not.'

Guy paused. I could tell he wasn't sure what I was talking about.

‘Ahhh … sure. Just quickly, and just for a coffee.'

We spent an hour tinkling at the piano and he brought my old nylon-stringed guitar to life, playing it like it had never been played before.

‘You're not half bad,' he nodded as I played him my work in progress. He gave me some pointers and then sang me a new song he was working on. After an hour, he stood up and stretched.

‘I gotta go,' he said. ‘Can't hang around here all day. You're a schoolgirl. What would people say?' He laughed and slapped me playfully on the back as I walked him to the door.

‘Catch you later. Thanks for the tips.'

‘You behave,' he called as he bounded down the path.

‘Never!'

I smiled and went back inside and practised my new and improved composition all day.

*

Despite their open-mindedness, my state-school buddies knew only the barest details of my backstage antics. While rock stars were expected to be wanton sex beasts, their partners were labelled sluts. Well aware of this double standard, I held my cards close to my chest away from the safety of the Vulture Club. It made no sense to me that men were allowed to explore their sexuality but women weren't. Weren't we sides of the same coin? Sex made me feel powerful and free and beautiful – something I lacked in my day job as a voiceless, uniformed student. I never saw the groupie set as sluts. We were rock and roll tourists, collecting souvenirs.

One night I stood at my bedroom window, watching the flat sheets of rain pour into our pool, droplets bouncing like bullets from the surface. I couldn't even see the fence or the hibiscus trees by the gate. The sound of the sudden storm was like an air-raid and my plans to throw myself at the frontman of the Radiators were drowning before my eyes. I'd been to a few of their gigs and found him strangely fascinating – odd, definitely, but also bizarrely attractive. Hawklike but sexy in a rough sort of way. I closed my curtains and pulled out some tissues to wipe the make-up from my face. No adventure that night. I was imprisoned by the weather.

My chin was sporting a constellation of spots, only half-hidden by a slash of foundation. There were dark rims, like hubcaps, under my eyes. I looked tired. The rain pelted down outside and I wondered if the Gold Coast might flood like it did in 1974. That had been kind of exciting, being rescued by boat from a neighbour's balcony. Perhaps I'd get out of school for a week or two.

But the rain eased by Friday and Rhonda came to stay for the weekend. We spent Saturday afternoon on the wooden deck of the Lakeside Café at Pacific Fair, exchanging musical titbits.

‘Sandi and the Sunsetz are out of this world. She is so talented,' Rhonda raved. ‘They're from Japan. I just love her.'

‘I'm not so into bands with girl singers.' I popped the bubbles of froth on my vanilla milkshake with a candy-striped straw, while Rhonda sipped her coffee like a grown-up.