Saving Jazz (14 page)

‘So, what's a day like here?' I asked. I was starting to warm to Carol, who, despite her aloofness, seemed to genuinely care.

‘They vary. It's pretty much all centred on making the women feel safe. At some point there'll be a form of counselling, whether formal, group or informal. But the women are not pushed to share their stories — it's very much about offering a refuge, a haven, while other plans can be made.'

I folded the linen silently. ‘Can I ask you something?'

Carol nodded, ‘Sure.'

‘Why do you do it?' I asked. While I could see the importance of such a place, it'd have to be depressing. All these battered women, emotionally or physically, rocking up and seeking help.

‘Like most people involved in a place like this, I have my own story,' Carol led me to an outdoor table and chairs and indicated for me to sit down. ‘I escaped an abusive relationship about ten years ago. My ex-husband wasn't physical, he was emotionally abusive. Living with him was like walking on eggshells — I know it's such a cliché, but it describes exactly that feeling. Creeping around, hoping not to do anything to get noticed, making yourself smaller and less visible, because you know that if you cause displeasure, the consequences aren't worth it. Sometimes it's raised voices, sometimes it's stony silence. And it's so insidious, you don't know it's even happening. It starts small — terse comments about something inadequate, maybe once I asked him to stop on his way home for milk and then when he walked in the
door he was sullen, ignoring me. When I asked if everything was alright he just turned around and pretended I wasn't there, as if I wasn't actually talking to him. Nothing to really complain about, but the first level in creating anxiety about asking him to do things. And then the boundaries get shifted further out. He once offered to mind the children for an hour so I could pick something up. When I was delayed — it wasn't ready — I could feel my anxiety increasing. Two hours later when I returned home he was furious. He looked at me full of contempt, narrowed his eyes and said he couldn't believe how useless I was.'

‘But he'd offered to help you.' This was starting to feel familiar to me.

‘Oh yeah,' Carol shrugged, ‘but within his terms. His control. One hour blew out into two and he wasn't happy — so he made sure I wasn't happy too. And because the details for each incident seem so trivial, you don't talk about it. He didn't act like that in front of others. In fact he was always the opposite. Mr Generosity — until it didn't go his way, and then I would hear about it. I would suffer for what someone else had done, suddenly every single thing
he was unhappy about was my fault. By the end he didn't really care about hiding that dark side from our friends. We'd be out at dinner with people and he'd make snide comments and put me down in front of everyone. It made me feel so small, so humiliated, that I stopped accepting invitations. I decided it was easier not to socialise than face the embarrassment of it all. I became totally isolated. It got to the point where I realised the situation had stripped me of my identity. I felt totally worthless. Powerless. I had nowhere to go. No family here. I had no money of my own — he controlled that — no job prospects. I felt trapped, and the more insignificant I grew the more powerful he became. It felt like only a matter of time before something would break. I just lived in fear.'

As Carol was speaking I suddenly realised why it felt so familiar. I saw a lot of my own father in the ex-husband she described. A powerful and controlling force. The way my mother crept around him, placating him, ensuring that nothing displeased him. Including me. I had to wonder whether my father was also guilty of domestic abuse.

I stayed at the shelter for two hours and helped
prepare the morning tea. I watched the women rise and come into the living areas. I listened to their chatter. Some of them smiled at me as they passed by. None of them sported any bruises or physical damage to their faces, none of them looked haggard or distressed. They carried their injuries on the inside. They looked like regular, normal, everyday women who you see on the bus, at the shops, down the beach. And that's when I realised the insidious nature of it all: they
were
the women I saw every day.

‘It's scary,' I told Aunty Jane later that day. ‘When I realise the extent of it. It's not that battered woman on the front of an awareness brochure, it's anyone.'

‘Yes,' Aunty Jane agreed. ‘I guess all relationships are about power. And it's a matter of getting the balance right because when there is a huge discrepancy the one with the power has all the control. When do you go back?'

‘Next Saturday,' I said. ‘I'm just doing dishes and folding stuff, helping make food, that kind of thing. It's not as bad as I thought.'

I did my time there, and by the end of it I was kind of sad to go. Carol had turned out to be a good
support — she had a huge heart and it was clear, through everything she did, that her only goal was to make the women feel safe. I got to know a few of them, but their stories aren't mine to share. What I learnt from them was the importance of being an individual, of not tying yourself so completely to another person that you couldn't extract yourself. Always having options. Some of them regretted their lack of education, others — highly qualified women — had been tied by religious or cultural beliefs, some by finances, others by children and the fear of splitting up the family. But by the end of my ten hours there they had all said the same thing: that no one should live in fear, that no one should feel at the mercy of another, that everyone has the right to freedom and happiness.

Dear reader, I'm sorry that it's been a while since we last met. Something got in the way of my blogging and it's called life. Yes, I hope you will be happy to hear (depending on your overall opinion of me) that my life has moved on and, as usual, my Aunty Jane was right — there is a lot to look forward to. But today an event occurred that took me back to Greenhead (mentally, not physically — I hope to never, ever set foot in that miserable town again), which reminded me of the whole sordid affair, but also put into perspective my life over the last two years.

The telling of that chance encounter will have to wait a few posts longer though, while I bring you up to date.

Let me start with Frank. I have to be the luckiest girl on the planet to have hooked myself such a hottie. So what did you know about him? Not much, I guess. When I met Frank — remember
that
incident? — I thought he was just a crazy barista. In a way he really is crazy — he loves me! I know, I'm sounding all girlish and silly, but Frank has done so much for my self-esteem. I've been so lucky to have his love and support. After my first shift with him, I started working Saturdays and Sundays. Chicco was always busy, filled with an alternative crowd who'd sit around debating world issues, vehemently arguing their case while small maltese terriers, beagles and sausage dogs curled at their feet sleeping. Frank ran the show. Not only was he a top-rate barista (and I'm pleased to say it's something I've added to my own skills list), he knew how to charm the ladies and chat sports, politics and religion with the gents. Chicco was known for having the best coffee on the strip (it's true — it was formally awarded by the City of Vincent). But more so, it was known for great service, relaxed ambiance and the hospitality of Frank.

As well as being a barista, Frank is also a
musician. And not just any musician — Frank is actually Nials Wisher. Some of you will be gasping for air right now — well, those of you who are under thirty and listen to Triple J. Yes, Nials Wisher is my Frank Adamo, who is also number twenty-seven on iTunes at the moment.

So now, dear reader, if you'll indulge me, I'd like to take you back in time.

We were at Chicco and it was late. We'd closed and I was pretty sure I had BO. It had been a mad day — North Perth had a food festival on and we were inundated with tourists (by tourists I mean people from outside the suburb). I was sitting at a table, surreptitiously sniffing the shirt under my armpit, when Frank plonked two coffees and a piece of cheesecake in front of me.

‘Cheesecake, my favourite,' I said.

‘Mine too,' Frank picked up a spoon, ‘but only the traditional type.'

‘Agreed,' I dug into the side of it, ‘not those horrible baked ones.'

‘Ugh,' Frank said, ‘they're not cheesecakes.'

‘Agreed,' I agreed again, marvelling at our
similarities (but at that point I had no idea how deep they ran). ‘So how come you work here?'

‘Well,' Frank dragged the cheesecake off his fork with his wonderfully white teeth, ‘money, mostly. But also, it's the family business, and you do what you do for family.' I nearly choked. Frank was an Adamo? Of the Adamo fortune? The Adamos, an Italian family who migrated to Australia after World War II, had created a coffee empire in North Perth. Their coffee shops — Chicco being the flagship — numbered over forty across the country. But they weren't a franchise. They were a family-run business, and believe me, the Adamos were an extensive, extended family.

I spluttered cheesecake. ‘You're an Adamo?' I squeaked.

‘Guilty,' Frank said, ‘but while coffee is the family business, my passion lies in music.'

‘A musician too?' I remember not believing that this guy was real. Who could be that hot, rich and level? Not even in a Disney film.

‘I play,' Frank said, ‘and I'm working on a new way to fuse jazz and rock. I don't know what to call it though.'

‘You should call it jock,' I said. He laughed loudly.

‘Perfect, but for the fact that no jock will listen to it. It's really more for the ladies.'

‘Razz?' I ventured.

‘Even better.' Frank stood. ‘Can I play you something?'

I nodded. I've always been supremely impressed by people who can play music. Frank emerged from the kitchen with an acoustic guitar. ‘Normally I plug into a machine, which records me, then I loop it back and use it as my backing, or my band, if you like. It's kind of experimental. But jazz requires certain instruments — like a sax, which I don't play. So this way I can synthesise my sounds and have a range of different-sounding instruments behind me.'

I won't go into detail about what he played that night, but those of you who know Nials Wisher will know exactly what I heard. It was mesmerising, and (like his eyes, I've got to admit) a bit enchanting.

‘It's beautiful,' I said, his melody lodged in my head. But more than that were his words, his lyrics. The man was a modern-day poet. ‘I love it.'

‘Thank you,' Frank smiled and looked up at me
from his guitar. ‘I've got a gig next weekend, and a couple of people from here are going. Would you like to come?'

‘Is it at a pub? I'm not eighteen,' I said.

‘Oh, I'm sure that won't be a problem, I know the owner. But you won't be able to drink.'

I shook my head, ‘Fine with me.' And it was. Following Greenheadgate I'd vowed I'd never drink again.

The gig was at a small bar called The Stoned Crow tucked down an alleyway in the heart of Northbridge. Frank picked me up from Aunty Jane's with Tony from Chicco and Lisa, Tony's girlfriend. They were all eighteen, so I was feeling a bit out of my depth and wondering why I had agreed to go to this gig. It was midweek so I didn't expect there to be many people, but the place was buzzing. Frank found us a table near the stage.

‘Back in a sec,' he said, dumping his gear on the floor. I sat at the table feeling a bit awkward, until Tony started talking about the crazy cat lady who came into Chicco at least twice a day.

‘So, she's convinced that we have no right
running a coffee shop in the middle of a residential area,' Tony said.

‘But Chicco has been there for fifty years,' I said.

‘Right — she's had this belief for that long — it's just as time has gone by, and all the other coffee shops have sprung up, she thinks it's all Joe's fault,' Tony said. ‘So today she comes in to warn us that she's put a hex on the coffee shop and all its employees.'

‘Great,' I said, ‘what's going to happen to us?'

‘She wouldn't say,' Tony said, ‘but Frank came out, tried to calm her down and get her out.'

‘Did she go?' I asked.

‘Yeah,' Tony said, ‘you know what Frank is like. A real charmer. Gave her a kilo of coffee beans and a pie, told her how lovely she was looking and managed to get her to lift the hex.'

‘Seriously?' I said.

‘Yep,' Tony said. ‘Speak of the devil.' I watched Frank make his way through the crowd to us.

‘All good?' Frank looked at me. I nodded. ‘I'm up next,' he said and pointed to the stage where a long-haired girl was sitting on a stool with an acoustic guitar. She reminded me of Jenny from
Forrest Gump
.

‘She's so pretty,' I said to no one in particular.

‘She's got an awesome voice. Her name is Tahlia Newton — and I'm pretty sure she's about to be discovered,' Frank said. ‘Wait til she starts, you've never heard anything like it.'

He was right, she had that ethereal, warbling sound that made English sound like a slightly different language.

‘She's so good,' I said, clapping loudly as she finished her set. Frank looked pleased.

‘Well, if you like her, you might like me then. There's hope for me yet,' he stood up and picked up his guitar. ‘Give us a hand, Tony?'

‘No worries, bro,' Tony said, picking up Frank's amp. They moved to the stage where Tahlia was standing to receive the applause and whistles of the crowd. Lisa leaned towards me.

‘It's so nice to finally meet you,' she said. ‘Frank has told me so much about you.'

‘You mean Tony,' I corrected her. Why would Frank talk about me? ‘I mostly work with Tony.'