Australia Day Read online

Apart from the American couple, everybody was staying in cabins at the camping ground. Meals were included. The first night was an all-you-can-eat, meet-and-greet barbecue. Leila picked up a plate and joined the winding queue. She was soon found by the South African lady, who had changed into knee-length shorts and Birkenstock sandals. A gold cross nestled in the speckled cleavage between her breasts.

  ‘You said you were from London?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  They moved forward in the line.

  ‘I’m Ellen.’

  ‘Leila.’

  Ellen spooned some potato salad onto her plate. ‘Do you have family in Australia?’

  ‘No.’ Leila thought it an odd question, as if everyone from England should have relatives in the former colony. ‘I’m working in Melbourne. As an au pair.’

  Ellen picked up a burnt sausage with a pair of tongs. Without asking, she placed it on Leila’s plate. ‘I had a nanny in South Africa.’

  Leila imagined a large black woman with a white bonnet and frilly apron.

  ‘The kids still talk about her.’

  Leila walked to an empty table and Ellen followed her. There was a group of Japanese tourists at the table beside them spraying themselves with insect repellent.

  Ellen groaned as she sat down. ‘Arthritis,’ she explained and rubbed her knees with her hands. ‘So what do you think of Australia?’

  Leila flicked an ant off the summit of her potato salad. ‘It’s nice. The people are friendly.’

  ‘It’s a lucky country.’

  Leila thought of the beaches along Port Phillip Bay and the sun and the Kellys’ four-bedroom bungalow. She nodded.

  ‘The blacks only make up three per cent of the population.’

  Leila stopped nodding.

  ‘Back home in South Africa we have big problems.’ Ellen wiped some tomato sauce from her lips with her napkin. ‘Big problems.’

  Leila chewed on the burnt sausage, which suddenly felt like broken sticks of charcoal in her mouth.

  Leila had always been able to pass for white. Much to her disappointment, she had not inherited her mother’s lush black eyelashes or coppery skin. As a baby, she’d had blond hair, and her brown eyes had a splash of green in them. Only her name, Leila, hinted at her Arabic roots, and even that had become mainstream. Apart from Mrs Kelly, Leila couldn’t remember a single person ever asking about her background.

  Leila’s mother, on the other hand, was a loud and proud Syrian. If people didn’t enquire about her heritage, it wasn’t long before she told them. People often mistook her for Spanish or South American. On those occasions, Leila felt sorry for the check-out chick or hairdresser or bank teller who had made the error, because they would then have to endure a short lesson on Syrian history. Leila’s mother loved to tell people how the capital, Damascus, was one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world.

  *

  It was five-thirty in the morning. The bus had pulled over by the side of the road for the tourists to watch the sun rise over Uluru. The desert was cold and dark. Max, the tour guide, handed out blankets and mugs of freshly brewed coffee. The Italian sisters, keen photographers, cleaned their camera lenses and assembled their tripods. The Australian family and the American couple were deep in discussion about whether or not to climb the rock.

  ‘I would,’ Ellen interjected, ‘if not for the arthritis in my knees.’

  They had all seen the sign.

  ‘WE DON’T CLIMB’

  OUR TRADITIONAL LAW TEACHES US

  THE PROPER WAY TO BEHAVE.

  WE ASK YOU TO RESPECT OUR LAW BY

  NOT CLIMBING ULURU.

  It was a polite appeal to visitors by the traditional owners of the land. But the climb was not prohibited, except on windy days, and today was not a windy day.

  Leila walked away from the group. She crossed the road, put her earbuds in. In the dark, the rock was just a shadow, but even its shadow was colossal, like the silhouette of a beast asleep on the smooth black land. Soon the sun peered across the rock’s shoulders, momentarily blinding them all. When they finally regained their sight, they saw the beast’s muscles stretch and flex beneath a dome of light.

  Leila and the others watched the climbers, reduced to the size of ants against the hulk of the rock, as they waited for the start of the tour. Leila tried to pick the three tiny dots that were the American couple and the Australian father.

  ‘Minga!’ a voice boomed from behind the group. Leila, Ellen and the Italian sisters stopped looking up at the rock and turned towards the speaker. He was a tall Aboriginal man with green eyes and a wide-brimmed black hat.

  ‘That’s what we call the climbers in our language.’ He pointed a finger at the rock. ‘See that white line?’

  Leila looked at the chalky streak on the rock’s orange face.

  ‘That’s the mark left by people’s footprints.’

  ‘Like a scar,’ Leila said.

  Ellen glared at her.

  The man smiled. ‘Name’s Jimmy,’ he said, tipping his hat. ‘I’ll be your guide around Uluru today.’

  As they walked, Jimmy told them how his ancestors had lived in the caves at Uluru, feeding on grains, honey ants and bush raisins. He told them the story of Kuniya, the sand python. He tried to explain Tjukurpa to them. He told them how Tjukurpa was law, teaching people how to care for one another and the land around them.

  ‘It’s the past, the present and the future all at once,’ he said.

  *

  When they arrived back at the start of their walk, two hours later, they saw a large group gathered around an ambulance. The Sydney mother sprinted towards the crowd shouting loudly for Tim. Leila presumed that was her husband’s name. The children didn’t move but stayed with the group, watching their mother with glassy eyes. Ellen, who was closest, kneeled down and gathered the children to her, pushing their faces into the two enormous pillows of her breasts. Luckily Tim soon emerged, with his wife, tall and unscathed. The children ran towards him.

  It turned out it was Harry Brown who was responsible for all the commotion. He’d had an attack of angina halfway up the rock. There had been two doctors on the climb with him, an anaesthetist from Canada and a cardiologist from Germany, and they had escorted him back down. Cynthia Brown had almost fainted with the excitement of it all, and she and her husband were rushed to the medical centre at Ayers Rock Resort.

  It was a smaller and more sombre group that climbed back on the bus at four o’clock. The early-morning start and the heat had taken their toll. The Sydney mother wore an annoyed I-told-you-so face, and the children, sensing something was up, played quietly on their iPads. Even the Italian sisters, who were always calm, looked less relaxed than usual. Max tried to lighten the mood with a couple of inappropriate jokes about Yankees and sand pythons, but it was no use—the tourists refused to be moved.

  As they drove back to the resort, Leila’s thoughts turned to her English grandfather. Like Mr Brown, he had suffered from angina, and Leila knew what a serious condition it could be. He used to say it felt like a tired old elephant had decided to take a rest on his chest. It was an image that had appealed to five-year-old Leila. For years afterward, whenever she saw her pa, she imagined a weary elephant trailing behind him.

  Leila was close to her father’s parents, Nan and Pa, but she had only met her Syrian grandparents once. She was just three at the time, but the journey was such a novelty, the memories had been seared into her brain. French doors with paint peeling in long white ribbons. Cream tiles with flecks of gold, cool to the touch of her toes. Coffee brewing in a copper pot on the hot blue tongues flickering up from the stove. Most of all she remembered the light—a glow neither watery like the British sun, nor hot and white like the Australian one. It had warmed Leila from the inside out. Like tea. Familiar, somehow.

  Harry Brown was in a stable condition at Alice Springs Hospital—at least that’s what Max told them once they had got back to Alice Springs themselves.
Two full days had passed since the incident at Uluru. Leila had almost forgotten about the Browns during a swim in the ‘Garden of Eden’ at Kings Canyon. As she lay floating in the waterhole, staring up at the patch of cloudless sky between the walls of orange rock, the fate of any individual—Harry Brown or otherwise—had seemed irrelevant.

  It was the last night of the four-day tour, and the group had gathered in a small theatre in Todd Mall, the town’s main shopping precinct. Leila was perched on a plastic seat, flanked by Tim and Ellen. The Italian sisters were sitting silently in the row immediately behind them. There were still a few minutes before the cultural extravaganza started.

  ‘Lucy’s back at the hotel with the kids,’ Tim said, excusing his wife’s absence. ‘They’re buggered.’

  Leila hadn’t seen the Australian couple speak directly to each other since they left Uluru. They communicated through their children instead. Ask Daddy to take a photo of us. Tell Mummy you’re hungry.

  ‘She still upset about Ayers Rock?’ Ellen said, ignoring Tim’s clear desire to avoid the subject.

  ‘She’ll get over it.’

  ‘Wives worry about their husbands,’ Ellen replied solemnly. ‘It’s normal.’

  Tim shook his head. ‘She thought it was disrespectful. To the traditional owners.’ Now that the issue had been broached, he seemed relieved to be speaking about it.

  ‘Big problems,’ Ellen said, shaking her head. ‘We’ve got big problems back home in South Africa.’ She looked behind, at the Italians. ‘But it’s not just Africa. Look at Europe!’ The sisters, surprised that they were suddenly being included in the conversation, simply nodded. ‘And not just Europe!’ Ellen said. ‘England too!’

  They all turned to look at Leila.

  Leila felt a rush of blood, hot and itchy, to her chest and neck. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, gripping the edge of her seat. ‘But I’m probably not the best person to ask. Mum being Syrian and everything.’

  The room was thrust into darkness. On the stage a lone spotlight shone on an Aboriginal man with a didjeridu. Lines of white paint fell in diagonals across the man’s pulsating cheeks. Leila felt the thrum, like a cat’s purr, through the soles of her feet. For a moment it was as if the entire world were vibrating, not just the tiny theatre in Todd Mall. Leila imagined her mother, sipping a cup of tea in England, trembling with the music too.

  Macca

  The community health centre is sandwiched between a laundromat and a 7-Eleven. Dr Garrett sits in the windowless tearoom alone, drinking her coffee. She doesn’t want to read the only magazine—a Reader’s Digest from 2012—so she reads the laminated signs above the sink instead. One soaker leads to many soakers! Don’t put empty cartons of milk back into the fridge! If the dishwasher is full of clean dishes, EMPTY IT! She imagines an army of people in aprons and rubber gloves shouting at her all at once.

  When she has finished, she walks back down the narrow corridor towards the reception area. Her consulting room still smells faintly of the feet of the homeless man she saw before lunch. She sprays a few puffs of the air freshener she keeps in the top drawer of her desk. Her one o’clock has arrived. His name is Patrick MacCarthy and he has been waiting for 9 minutes, 12 seconds. She browses Mr MacCarthy’s past medical history. Forty-nine. Stage 1 melanoma. Untreated hypertension. Smoker of 30 to 50 cigarettes per day. She hopes to God he is here today for something simple. A blood pressure check, perhaps, or a prescription for an antifungal. She is not in the mood for emotional excavation, financial strife, domestic violence or depression. She wants to give Mr MacCarthy what he wants and send him on his merry way.

  The only man in the waiting room looks older than forty-nine. His face is scored with deep lines—dark, seemingly bottomless fissures, like those on an ancient rock face. Dr Garrett can just see the outline of the skin graft on his cheek—an island of smooth pink skin—where the melanoma was removed ten years ago.

  ‘My name is Dr Garrett, but you can call me Emily.’

  ‘Macca,’ he says, sitting down and fiddling with the crotch of his tracksuit pants. ‘Me daughter’s name is Emily.’

  Dr Garrett is surprised. She would have predicted something less traditional. Something like Shayna or Janelle.

  ‘Her favourite things are Lady Gaga and spaghetti bolognese.’

  Dr Garrett uncrosses her legs, plants her feet firmly beneath the desk. ‘What can I do for you today?’

  ‘Court ordered me to come.’

  ‘The court ordered you? To see me?’

  ‘Not you pacifically.’ Macca makes broad strokes in the air with his heavily tattooed arms. ‘This place.’

  ‘Right.’ Dr Garrett types the words court order into Macca’s electronic file. She hesitates before swivelling back to face him again.

  ‘Well, then, Macca, what does the court want me to do for you today?’

  ‘Get me off the grog.’ He grins. She sees that he is missing a top left incisor.

  ‘And do you see your drinking as a problem?’

  ‘I don’t want to go to jail, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  But that is not what Dr Garrett is getting at. She wishes to God she knew what she was getting at.

  ‘I’ve got me kid to think about. And me missus.’

  He reaches for his cigarettes but stops himself when he remembers where he is.

  ‘You’re married,’ she says.

  ‘Separated.’

  She adds this detail to the social history section of Macca’s file.

  ‘But we’re working on it.’ He clears his throat. ‘For Emily.’

  Dr Garrett waits for a respectful amount of time to pass—roughly ten seconds—before continuing.

  ‘And do you mind me asking where you’re living at the moment?’

  She sees Macca eye the shiny bag with its silver buckle tucked beneath her desk.

  ‘On me brother’s floor. Just until I get me shit together. You know how it is.’

  She looks up, and for a moment, the briefest of moments, their eyes meet across the messy desk.

  ‘And your brother,’ she says, turning back to face the computer screen. ‘Does he drink?’

  ‘Hammer?’ Macca says and laughs as if his brother’s drinking habits should be public knowledge. ‘Like a fish.’

  Dr Garrett stays behind after the clinic has closed to complete her paperwork. At five-thirty the receptionist calls to ask her how much longer she will be.

  ‘Five minutes.’

  She blames Macca. He threw a spanner into what might otherwise have been an unremarkable day. As it was, she’d ended up running forty-five minutes late. Mrs Weatherington was unhappy because she’d missed her midafternoon snack, and being diabetic—as she liked to point out repeatedly to anyone who would listen—a cheese sandwich was all that was standing between her and a hypoglycaemic coma.

  ‘You right?’

  She looks up to see Jeff’s smiling red face in the doorway.

  ‘Just shutting down now.’

  Jeff is the most senior doctor in the practice. Emily likes him. He is one of those country-trained GPs who could treat a cow for bloat and deliver a baby in the same day.

  ‘You know, Em,’ he says, taking a seat in the patient chair. ‘This afternoon, as I sat listening to a morbidly obese woman tell me how she really only ever eats salads and how her husband left her for a younger and skinnier version of herself and how this has made her eat more, even though, really, what she eats is hardly anything at all…’

  Emily laughs.

  ‘I found myself getting sucked into her black hole of helplessness and negativity.’

  The computer expires with a melodious sigh.

  ‘And as I sat there, half-listening, half-trying to devise solutions to her insoluble problems, it hit me. Like Newton’s apple. None of this was my problem.’

  Dr Garrett thinks this a little harsh.

  ‘It was a revelation. They were her problems, not mine. Not ours. Not yours.’ Jeff slaps his hand empha
tically on the edge of her desk. ‘You should remind yourself of that, Emily. You should say it to yourself at the beginning and the end of every day. Help the poor buggers as much as you can within the confines of this room, but whatever you do, don’t take their shit home with you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Remember that.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Not your problem.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘Not my problem.’

  ‘Amen.’

  He looks different today. Dr Garrett can’t quite put her finger on it—a haircut, perhaps, or a clean shave—but he seems younger, sprightlier, less sedate. When she calls him from the waiting room, he hurries at her heels like a toddler, bubbling with unspoken words.

  ‘I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about what you said.’

  ‘What I said?’

  ‘If I thought me drinking was a problem.’

  ‘You said you didn’t want to go to prison if you could help it.’

  ‘Yeah, well…’ He examines his freshly cut fingernails. ‘That was a cop-out.’

  Macca leans across the desk. It is a sudden movement that takes Dr Garrett by surprise. She can see every line in his corrugated face, feel every puff of his coffee-cigarette breath on her cheek. Her fingers find the duress alarm—two big red keys—hidden beneath her desk. She lets her hand hover there as she waits for him to speak.

  ‘Let’s do it.’

  *

  The drug and alcohol worker’s name is Rowena, but she prefers to be called Ro. She could be beautiful if she wanted to be, but she doesn’t want to be and so she is not. She has short hair, dyed a lifeless black, and a cold sore on her top lip. She wears a Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt and a leather band on her left wrist.

  ‘All inpatient beds are taken,’ she says, licking milk froth from the edge of her coffee cup. ‘Our only option is home detox.’

  Dr Garrett summarises Macca’s history as Rowena scribbles in her notebook. Court order. Twelve beers a day. Old track marks left arm. It is agreed. Dr Garrett will prescribe small quantities of diazepam for Macca to pick up from the chemist every couple of days. Hammer will dispense these to Macca as required to keep the tremors at bay. Rowena will do a home visit on day two—the point at which the more severe symptoms, like hallucinations, can kick in—to see how he is getting on. She will be contactable by mobile phone twenty-four hours a day. Dr Garrett will review Macca’s progress back at the clinic the following week.