Legacy (12 page)

24

I love it when someone is at the airport to pick me up, especially after a long flight. It is a comforting thought to know that you have arrived in a place where you have someone who cares about you.

‘Hello, sweetheart.' Mum hugs me as I walk through the waiting throng and into her arms. I'm surprised when she starts to cry.

‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes. Yes. Of course. Of course I am. I am just so pleased to see you.'

‘I was home only two weeks ago.'

‘Yes, I know. But I'm your mother. Two weeks is a long time.'

I've been away for almost a year before this spate of quick visits and never got tears before but I let it pass.

‘How was the trip?' Mum asks after we've packed my bags in the back seat of her car and begun the journey home. I can see she is still teary - those telltale red rims around her eyes.

‘Fine. I read a book on the plane.
Billy Budd.
It was Professor Young's favourite. He talked about it all the time.'

‘That's a nice way to remember him. Does his favourite book reveal anything?'

‘Do you know the book?'

‘I've heard of it but I've never read it.'

I tell Mum the basic storyline. The book is set in the late 1790s and tells the story of a sailor in the Royal Navy, Billy Budd. He's an orphaned, illegitimate child but innocent and open, a little naive but likeable, popular with everyone. For some reason, probably jealousy and false gossip from a crew mate, he arouses the antagonism of the ship's Master-at-Arms, John Claggart, who falsely accuses Billy of conspiracy to mutiny.

Claggart brings his charges to Captain Vere who summons them both to his cabin. Claggart makes his false charges but Billy is unable to defend himself. He has a speech impediment and isn't articulate, can't argue. He gets so frustrated about not being able to properly express himself and counter the charges that he lashes out involuntarily at Claggart, killing him with a single blow.

Captain Vere convenes a court martial. At his insistence, they convict Billy; Vere argues that any appearance of weakness in the officers and failure to enforce discipline could stir the waters of mutiny throughout the British fleet. Billy is condemned to be hanged from the ship's yardarm.

‘That's not a very cheery story. Not a very happy ending,' Mum says when I have finished.

‘I know. When I discussed it with Professor Young he said that Captain Vere deliberately distorted the law to bring about Billy's death. The story shows how when we apply the law in a seemingly fair but narrow way, without considering the idea of justice more broadly, it can create a huge wrong. That's why Professor Young liked the book, I think. He was always interested in whether laws were applied fairly or whether they were applied in a way that might have
seemed
fair but actually caused great injustice. It was what he was known for. All the books he was most famous for were about that.'

‘It sounds like Professor Young was a very fine man. A man with great principles.'

‘He was. And I always found him so. You know how I admired him, even worshipped him really. And part of that was because he did have a sincere interest in justice and fairness, making sure that people were treated properly by the law and were not victims of its manipulation. But …'

‘But what?' Mum asks, glancing sideways at me as she drives.

I'm thinking about my encounter with Professor Baxter.

‘But I don't think it reveals as much about him as the fact that I don't think his daughter liked him very much.'

‘Goodness, whatever gave you that idea?'

We have arrived in the driveway. ‘Make me a cup of tea, Mum, and I'll tell you all about it.'

By the time we finish the tea I have relayed the details of the unsettling conversation. Professor Young's book sits on the table between us, like a court exhibit.

‘She was so sure, Mum, so sure that his own daughter wouldn't want it. She told me the book was very important to him. She said it was perhaps his most valued possession. Yet she was so adamant about not taking it.'

Mum pours me another cup of tea. I run my fingers across the leather of the books spine.

‘Well, I guess you can never know the whole story of what happened in his family.'

‘I guess. I saw his daughter at the memorial service. She looked, I don't know, so angry. Her father was dead and she had all this rage. And I thought, I never want to feel that way about Dad.'

‘Of course not, Simone. Why would you? Your father loves you.'

I smile back at her but it is false.

I don't doubt my father loves me. The problem is that since I saw him in that embrace I have not been able to get it out of my mind. And the more I dwell on it, the more I detest him. And I'm sure that is why the image of Professor Young's daughter haunts me and why my encounter with Professor Baxter keeps coming to mind. I can see myself feeling like that, small and hard with my hate like a little nut. And if Dad died this minute I may have no way of letting it go.

I clearly can't talk to Mum about why I am so angry at Dad. I could never hurt her that way.

There is only one person who I can have that conversation with and that is Patricia Tyndale.

25

When I was younger and I wanted to know something, Dad would say, ‘Why don't you ring Patricia and ask her.'

Even though she was a regular in our house, close with both my parents and with Tanya's as well, the idea of speaking to her filled me with such fear that I would mumble, ‘It's all right. I'll work it out for myself. It's not that important.'

Patricia was always tough and forthright and it took a while for me to realise that she was also generous, kind. As I grew older I appreciated her qualities, along with the wisdom of her life experience. Even now I still feel nervous with her, a hangover from my childhood, but I always cherish the time I spend in her company. I like hearing her speak - about ‘the old days', community politics, what I should be doing with my life. There are always long pauses in our conversation and she has periods of being so quiet that sometimes I wonder if she remembers that I am present.

‘The silences are just as important as the words,' Nan had said to me once but it is an insight that does not sit well with my impatience. I like looking at Patricia in those long pauses. She has the kind of timeless beauty that only gets richer with age, is not spoiled by lines.

‘How's that fellow of yours?' she asks as we sit down.

‘Over,' I say, fidgeting. ‘Didn't really last with me going overseas and all.' Once speaking about Jamie would have me lamenting and talking about how wonderful he was but our last phone conversation has killed off my delusions and my last trip to the States has completely pushed him out of my mind.

Patricia offers me a cigarette. I smile at her but shake my head. She shrugs, taking one from the packet for herself. ‘Well, nicotine always works for me.' She clicks her lighter and winks at me as she takes a deep drag. ‘It's good this coming and going you've taken to of late. I'm doing very nicely with the duty free.' She smiles her wry smile. ‘So what brings you around?'

‘Something I saw.'

She is dragging on her cigarette but she raises an eyebrow.

‘I surprised Dad at the office a couple of weeks back and … well … I caught him in an embrace with one of the young lawyers there. Rachel Miles.'

‘What did your father do?'

‘I walked out before he could say anything but he had guilt plastered all over his face. And his hand was up her shirt.'

She holds my gaze and I try to read her. I've never been able to work out what she's thinking but I know I don't see surprise on her face.

‘Have you said anything to him since?'

‘I can't. I keep avoiding him. I couldn't bear to hear him try to explain himself or justify it and I just don't know what to say to him. I'm so furious about it, with him. I don't know why he's doing this to Mum. And I don't know why he's doing it to me. And now, every time he prattles on about land rights and human rights and any other kind of rights I think, well, what about acting like a good person? Why be yammering on about how the world needs to be just and fair when you behave like such a bastard? How can he be so self-righteous when he has no morals?'

I pause. Patricia is still looking at me and it is a long moment before she answers.

‘Just because someone is a bastard doesn't mean they don't have rights, you know. Human rights are not just there for people who are good. They are there for everyone. Including those with flaws like your father.'

‘Yeah, I know. I know. If it was a matter of being perfect to deserve them, none of us would be entitled to them,' I reply grimly.

There is more silence as she inhales her cigarette and then watches as the smoke dissipates into the air as she exhales. She doesn't speak again until she determinedly stubs out the cigarette.

‘I want to show you something,' she announces.

She rises from her chair and leaves the room, re-emerging some time later armed with a scrapbook. She drops it in front of me and nods. I start to thumb through it. It is full of clippings, the paper yellowed and fragile with age. There are stories about my father - profiles of him, stories about speeches he has given, legal cases of importance that the legal service had won.

‘I have kept these over the years. Helps with my memory for when I write my memoirs one day.'

‘That will be some book.'

‘Indeed. But I'll have to write them when some of these people are dead. Just so I can tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I'll call them
Betraying Bastards I Have Known.'
She sniffs as she reaches for her cigarette packet again.

‘And what about Dad?'

Patricia stops pulling the cigarette from the packet, lost in thought. She looks out her apartment windows to the train lines and streets below. It seems like several minutes before she turns to me. ‘I think your father was always afraid of me. I don't know why, but I seem to have that effect on men.' She finally pulls the cigarette out and lights it. ‘I've known him for a long time. I know most of his secrets so he can't hide much from me.'

‘Was he always a womaniser?'

‘There were always plenty of women who were attracted to your father. You might find this hard to believe because you're his daughter but women were very drawn to him.'

‘Oh, I know that. And I can see why. But the thing is, why does he have to act on it? That's the part that gets me. Where's his moral compass?'

‘You're very judgmental.'

‘He's my father. I should have an opinion.'

‘Go to the back page of that scrapbook.'

I dutifully turn and there is an interview with my father from the
Koori Mail,
in a question and answer style.

‘Read that,' Patricia orders.

It asks questions like ‘where are you from?' and ‘what is your favourite meal?', ‘what is your favourite song?' and ‘what is your favourite movie?'. Then there is the question: ‘How would you spend the last night of your life?' He has answered: I would stay up all night with my daughter Simone, talking and laughing.

‘I don't doubt he loves me. That's not the point. What about Mum?'

‘Your father is a complicated man.'

‘So everyone tells me.'

Patricia ignores me. There is a stoniness creeping into her voice when she continues.

‘You know what I think you should do? I think you should go home and visit your grandmother. We're Aboriginal people. When something goes wrong or we have a problem that needs working out, we go home, back to our country. It's what we do, where we are strongest. That's why we ask “Where are you from?” when we meet someone, not “What do you do?” You should go home and visit your grandmother.'

26

‘I always know it's you if the phone rings this late at night.'

‘Well, you're about the only person who I can rely on to help me get to sleep,' Patricia sighed.

Arthur laughed. ‘That doesn't sound like a compliment.'

‘You know what I mean.'

‘So you're having another restless night?'

‘I was lying in bed but just couldn't sleep. I'm out on the balcony, enjoying a smoke and watching the streets below. They're as restless as I feel.'

‘What's on your mind?'

‘I don't know. Tony's daughter was here today. She's as angry with her father as she was when you saw her at Tanya's. That deep, deep anger that gets richer with time. I tried to show her how much he loved her. I had a clipping in a scrapbook. But opening it was like unlocking a box of memories.'

‘Well, you've been fighting the good fight for a long time now. Longer than it would be polite to mention.'

‘You've been there as long as I have,' Patricia replied.

‘True. But you've put your heart into it. And I had Sarah and the girls to lift me up. You've never had that.'

‘Maybe that's why they call it a political
struggle.
It always feels like a fight.'

‘And you've paid a high price for it.'

‘I have. I've felt myself harden over the years. I don't know how to compromise.'

‘You might be tough on the outside but I know you, my girl, and there is a very big heart beating in there.'

‘It feels like that soft part gets smaller and smaller. But I've seen those people - and you know the ones I mean - who have so much bitterness in them that there is no softness left. I worry I will become one of them, one of those people with nothing but hardness.'

‘You have me.'

Patricia smiled. ‘Yes. I have you. It's a good friend who lets you ring at all hours of the night understanding that you are an insomniac.'

‘And a not very cheery one,' Arthur teased.

Patricia put the phone back in the receiver and lit another cigarette. Sometimes speaking with Arthur would soothe her and she would be able to sleep. Other times - and tonight was one of them - she would feel as restless as before she rang.

It had been the talk with Simone and the flood of memories that was haunting her. Even after all these years, she could remember every detail of that time when she had first met Tony. She had watched so intently, playing every scene over and over in her mind, and interpreting every detail.

It was out of character for her to sit quietly by, just watching. While she was outspoken when it came to politics, she found herself mute when it came to her heart. And often, on these nights when she could not sleep, she would think about all the ‘what ifs', rehearsing what she wished she had said.

Tony was brash even then, confident, but she had always seen beyond that. She sensed he had secrets, that there was much more to him than others knew. And that first time he smiled at her had burnt deep into her memory - the sideways glance, glinting eyes and that dark curl across his forehead. No one would have guessed how much it had melted her heart.

In the throng of the discussions, the heated debates about what to do next, the detailed planning of what to write, what to say and who should do what, Patricia found herself timid when Tony was around. Yet when he flirted with her, she succumbed. Late that night, that fateful night, amid the smell of burning wood and people sweating, the sounds of laughter and guitars twanging, Tony sat down close to her, so close she thought he would feel her heart beating. And that night, under the tents, in the midst of history in the making he kissed her, placed his hands on her body. She could feel her skin respond to his.

And just as Patricia never forgot that night, she remembered the next morning just as clearly. She felt she was shining from within and was convinced that everyone would know just by looking at her. She glowed. He looked sheepish.

But later that same day, the very day that Patricia thought was the beginning, it all ended. Patricia didn't notice Beth Ann when she first arrived. She was sitting at the back of a group assembled in one of the main tents. Patricia had been watching Tony, following his every move, and saw that his eyes kept being drawn towards the woman who was sitting beside Arthur. Patricia watched as Tony betrayed both her and his best friend to get his heart's desire.

By that time, things had culminated with the protest too. Everyone knew the police were poised to move so they put the women and children in the frontline. They will not arrest the women, everyone had said. There were arguments that night about what to do but Patricia, so burning with rage about Tony and his easy dismissal, was happy to put herself on the line, to put her slender body in front.

She had linked arms with the others, shouted ‘Land Rights Now' and sang ‘We Shall Not Be Moved.' There were hundreds of people standing by, watching - tourists with their cameras, public servants in their suits. It was mid-morning when the police moved in. Their fists smashed against Patricia's flesh and she ended up in the hospital.

When she was released, she returned to the Embassy. By then Tony had left, following Beth Ann to Sydney.

Patricia had never spoken about that night to Tony. She was glad of the silence, fearing that any attempt to laugh off as a joke a memory she held so dearly would cheapen it. A part of her hoped Tony's romance with Beth Ann wouldn't last but deep down she knew it would, could see it in Tony's face that he loved Beth Ann with the same depth that Patricia loved him.

Patricia kept the scrapbook of him. Not of everyone, as she had pretended to Simone. She didn't need help to keep her memories, but the clippings represented a part of him that she could have.

Patricia returned to her bedroom. She slipped between the sheets and turned the bedside light off. She could picture the embrace that haunted Simone. She too had heard the rumours over the years, caught the whispers and winks, and she was always curious whether Beth Ann knew. She wondered, couldn't help herself, that if Tony had chosen her, how she would have coped with his infidelity.

Still, whatever Tony's faults, she loved him. Always had. Never wavered. Staring at the ceiling, Patricia waited for sleep to come. She wondered how long it would take Simone to realise that to love someone despite their faults, to love the whole person, good and bad, is to truly love them.